


Cut From the Cloth

by nukablastr



Series: No Closer to Peace [2]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Coda, Developing Relationship, Episode 17x17: Manhattan Transfer, Episode 17x18: Unholiest Alliance, Episode 17x22: Intersecting Lives, Episode 17x23: Heartfelt Passages, Episode Related, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-30
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-21 13:19:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 62,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11358315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nukablastr/pseuds/nukablastr
Summary: "If you don't mind me asking," Barba spoke between bites, dabbing his lips with a napkin, "how did you finally manage to get through to Father Eugene?"Carisi thought back to that gloomy cathedral, colored light from the stained glass dappling the nave. “Like I said, he had some priesthood left.""Yes, you said.""I reminded him that God was listening to him, even still." He sat up straighter on his stool, "That God still looks gracious on us people weighed down by our consciences. That we're always lifted up by His mercy."Barba gave a small, surprised chuckle. "You weren't kidding when you said you wanted to be a priest."---A coda interwoven through the tail-end of Season 17 in which Carisi struggles with his faith and his instincts as the squad uncovers the Catholic Church's involvement in a deadly prostitution ring.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for your kudos and kind words thus far!
> 
> Disclaimers: Canon-compliant to a point, as this basically is my attempt at filling in a lot of the blanks in the series the way I'd imagine them to be written. Thus, it will both have spoilers for season 17/18, and also go off script a little.
> 
> Set to M to be safe - tagged for canon-level descriptions of sexual assault/violence.
> 
> I own nothing/nobody (except a couple cats and they'd deny it). I'm neither a cop nor a lawyer (nor a priest), so I apologize for any inaccuracies as I imagine the inner workings of it all. There was an honest attempt at editing, but if anything sticks out, let me know.

Carisi took in the strange details of the young woman's face as they sat across the table from one another. She was bird-like, her face all bone and angle, her expression impossibly tired despite the thrum of anxious energy she radiated. The oversized department jacket they'd lent her to cover up served only to make her seem smaller as she curled in on herself in the metal chair.

He'd tried a friendly approach first, cautious and warm, not too pressing with his questions, but she was adamant that she wouldn't talk to a male cop, especially one who had so recently been passing himself off as a john.

So instead they sat, wary, as he waited for Benson or Rollins to rescue him. He figured if he chattered aimlessly she might warm up a bit, but she only bit at her nail beds and looked everywhere around the room except his face.

Finally, after a few agonizing minutes of mindless blathering, he heard the door open behind him and was relieved to hear the lieutenant's voice break the tension.

"Nina," Benson said as she crossed into the room. "So, I was just talking to our ADA. He was wondering why a nun would be at a sex party."

This spoke to the heart of Carisi's interest as well. Sister Nina’s was an image that was diametrically opposed to his entire catholic upbringing.

"I'm not comfortable with him," Nina jerked her head in Carisi's direction, fixing her uneasy stare at a point just beyond his head.

"The sister would prefer to talk to a woman so--" he gave a thumb back at the door Benson had entered, "I'm gonna take another run at the johns."

Before he left the room, he gave Benson a final questioning look from the doorway, and she nodded him along.

 _Go ahead_ , she seemed to say with everything but her voice, _I got it._

Barba stood there as he left the room, just outside by the mirror, well-dressed as always and scrutinizing the scene in front of him. Without directly regarding his exit, Barba spoke to the detective as he passed through the doorway.

"A nun, huh?"

"Who would have thought," Carisi said, pleased to see the ADA had been stationed there and, in light of that fact, found himself a bit less eager to go chat with the tight-lipped civil servants.

"It's not the usual kind of charity work one imagines in their line of duty," Barba gestured toward Nina as he spoke.

Carisi positioned himself beside Barba, and they watched together as Benson artfully drilled down the nun's motive behind her attendance. Not a madam nor a waitress -- Carisi was secretly thankful that the nun had not turned out to be a madam, he wouldn't know what to do with that information -- no, but instead a rogue undercover agent trying to save the trafficked girls.

"Where have I heard this line of reasoning before," Barba mused as Nina deflected any attempt at acknowledging her sources, insisting that it would betray months of earned trust. Carisi stole a glance at Barba as he watched the scene unfolding, marveling at how energized he seemed in the face of what was likely one of the more complicated cases they'd caught in a while. At the very least, the caliber of their johns would prove troublesome in any court proceedings to follow.

Barba flicked him a sidelong glance, catching Carisi's gaze for a brief moment. Then, looking away with a smirk, Barba added: "You're significantly less bloodied than the last time you went undercover at one of these parties. That's a plus."

Carisi couldn't help the smile that overtook him. It wasn't a particularly fond memory, Declan cold-cocking him in the middle of their Superbowl sting and all the rest that came along with the Johnny D. case, but the fact that Barba recalled the bloody nose he’d earned was surprising. He felt his cheeks flush -- not with pride, exactly, but something unnamable, electric.

"Yeah well, I guess that means I'm getting better at fitting in at these events."

"Oh, I wouldn't brag about that," Barba said, sparing a glance toward the collection of big names milling around the bullpen. "You were going to get some answers from our distinguished friends out there?"

Carisi nodded and took a few steps back, understanding the dismissal for what it was. "Ah well you know all the answers already, counselor. They clearly had no idea it was that kind of party. They thought it was a fundraiser."

"No doubt. And yet, I'd bet there were no funds raised."

"What a surprise," he said into the hallway as he left Barba to watch the lieutenant and Sister Nina. He approached a group of johns, motioning for them to join him in one of the rooms for questioning.

And as he sat down with the men, all of them entirely innocent and thoroughly appalled with a dash of righteous indignation, he couldn't shake that low buzzing feeling in the back of his brain, that unnamable feeling, a joyful appreciation of being noticed – or really, remembered -- in a room.


	2. Chapter 2

Any progress gained with this case was slow and stilted at best. No one on the squad was surprised by that, considering the major players at this point. At every turn it seemed this labyrinth unfurled its dark twisting passageways with no end in sight, and no real leads were forthcoming.

When vice offered no help, seemed to be the dirtiest players by far, the squad connected some of the trafficked girls to a Saint Fabiola's parochial school. Tucker took a run at his cousin, Father Eugene O'Hanigan, who worked there as a psychologist and counselor, and when he'd returned to the squad with little helpful information aside from disheartening news regarding the church's poor image of Sister Nina's mental state, Benson's cool veneer began to crack.

"We're running out of angles to go at this thing," she said, pacing at the head of the table at which the rest of the squad sat for the briefing. Fin lounged back in his chair, hands held together across his chest, and beside him stood Dodds, pensive and calculating as always. Carisi sat up close to Benson, long legs angled outwards, brow furrowed in thought, and Rollins sat across from him, watching Benson carefully as she delegated.

"Well," she stopped pacing then, regarding Dodds as she laid out their next move. "I guess at this point we'll need to update Barba, see where he thinks we can go with what we've got."

Carisi jumped a bit at this offer, and Rollins gave him a sidelong glance that seemed to announce that she'd noticed the interest.

"Dodds, you and I will go," Benson said, either not noticing or choosing to remain oblivious to Carisi's change in demeanor. "Rollins," she added, "you too.”

“Fin and Carisi, you guys hang back and keep following up with friends and family, classmates, see if you can't find someone who knows something about how these parties are advertised, how the girls know about them to begin with."

Carisi sunk back in his chair, pressing his fingers together and considering them darkly. As Rollins and Dodds made to leave with the lieutenant, Fin sauntered over. "Hey man, where are you at on this classmate angle?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, not real far." He refocused his attention on Fin, "I've talked to a couple of classmates but nothing has stood out."

"Same here. Why don't we go try a few more leads."

Carisi followed him back to their desks, his set far enough from Fin and Rollins' to feel isolating, and began rifling through his papers looking for phone numbers. It wasn't as much that he felt that this particular duty was beneath him -- he would do anything if it were towards the end of finding answers -- but he felt suddenly trapped by the assignment and chained to his desk because of it. With each passing minute he felt exponentially more antsy, and worse still with each fleeting conversation that led him nowhere fruitful, left him spinning in the endless circles of teenage thought processes.

\---

By the time the rest of the squad returned from Barba's office that afternoon, Carisi was nearly vibrating with pent up energy and frustration. No further leads had been procured by him or Fin in their conversations, and he was endlessly curious about what Barba had given in exchange for what little they had so far. He met the three of them a bit too energetically as they entered the bullpen, all questions about what they'd learned.

"Carisi," Benson greeted his exuberance, bemused. "Look, Barba wants us to see if we can get Cara to talk to him, a step towards possibly testifying against the vice cops for the rapes at least. Since you're, um, raring to go," she shot a quick glance to Rollins, who seemed to share her sentiment, "why don't you and Rollins head over to St. Bernadine's and see if you can't get her to agree to talk to him?"

"Absolutely, lieutenant," he said, wasting little time in gathering his things, heading to the door. Rollins waited for him there at the doorway, regarding his excitement cautiously. Despite his efforts to rein in the energy he exuded, he couldn't help outpacing her in the hallways as they left, his mind already three steps ahead of the game.

No sooner had they cleared the threshold of the building than the questions began: "So, does Barba really think he'll be able to get her to testify against vice? Seems risky."

Rollins squinted against the afternoon sun, "He said to see if we could get her to talk to him at least. Who knows what he can pull out of his sleeve after that."

"Right." Carisi replied. "Right. Well, what did he think about where we're at now? You know, with the whole case and everything."

She let out a sigh. "He didn't seem too optimistic, all things considered. Hey, what's got you so hyped up?"

"Ah, no, not hyped. S'just, I dunno, I felt kinda useless back there. Wasn't getting anything from the classmates, no one knows anything about the parties, and I figured you guys might have gotten somewhere, that Barba might have had good ideas or something."

She considered him as they walked, the barely restrained bound in his step, the way his hands never seemed to stay still as he spoke.

"Hmm," was her only response.


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Ida led them down the dim hallway at St. Bernadine's, cautioning them not to expect too much from Cara as she'd been in her room all day.

"She didn't even come down for supper," the nun added with an air of uncertainty.

Rollins assured her that their DA still wanted them to reach out, even if Cara maintained that she didn't want to leave her room.

"I really don't think she'll be up for this," Sister Ida cautioned and, ever eager to smooth things over, Carisi chimed in: "Well, if she tells us that, then we'll leave, alright?"

The nun didn't seem convinced, but knocked on her door all the same. "Cara?"

There was no response, and so she knocked a second time. "Cara..."

She opened the door slightly and let go at the sight, the door itself slowly unveiling the scene inside. From his angle, Carisi could only see Rollins' response, the sudden shock that played over her face as she made her way quick into the room.

The nun fell back into the hall, clutching at her mouth as she cried out. From behind Rollins, Carisi could see Cara laid out on her bed as though deep in sleep, so peaceful but so pale, so still, somewhere far beyond their interruption. Beside her on the table lay paraphernalia; a tourniquet was still tied at her upper arm, the needle prick still bright and fresh, blossoming against the white of her skin.

He fumbled with his phone, calling for a bus, but Rollins stopped him before he could get much past his own name. "She's gone," she said, shaking her head.

Carisi held the phone for a moment more at his ear, listening to the distant voice of the dispatcher ask him to repeat himself, letting the full impact of the moment wash over him in sickening waves. The nun behind him drew a quiet cross in shock, in prayer, and it took all of his restraint not to do the same.

\--

They debriefed the lieutenant who met them on their way to the Medical Examiner's office. Benson and Rollins speculated on where the heroin could have come from, but to Carisi, it was relatively clear: at a halfway house, you probably wouldn't have to look far before you stumbled on someone's stash.

Really, sometimes the easy answers were the right ones.

Seeing Cara's body again, laid out on the metal table and covered with a pale sheet, it was unnerving. He didn't often feel so affected by the bodies -- they were an eventuality in the profession -- and yet, this one touched some dark place in him, clung on behind his eyelids.

"Accident or suicide?" Rollins asked, taking in the full sight of Cara.

"You tell me," the examiner countered, "when was the last time this girl used drugs?"

"She's been clean for six months," Carisi answered, his eyes stuck on the t-shaped stitching running across her collarbone, down her sternum. _Was clean_ , he revised in his mind.

"Sometimes addicts, after they're sober, go back to their old dosage," the examiner offered.

Rollins continued to speak to her, but the words seemed suddenly too far away, too muddled for him to comprehend. He took in every detail of Cara in that moment: her chapped lips, strong shoulders, the dark curl of her drawn lashes in sharp contrast against her complexion.

It was only when Rollins turned to him, her eyes searching his face with concern, that he was able to tear away from her peaceful expression for a moment's reprieve.

"And, if it helps, it's actually a very humane death," the examiner said to them then, regarding Cara's body with resigned compassion. "She would have been fast asleep by the time her lungs filled with water."

With that, an image flashed briefly across Carisi's mind: the slosh of the baptismal font, thick rivulets of holy water running over his niece's fat baby cheeks. He felt an urgent sickness welling in the back of his mouth.

\--

Carisi hung back in the main hallway as Rollins and the lieutenant stood together, discussing next moves. He found the last picture Bella had sent him of his niece and opened it big on his phone, feeling grounded in her innocent smile. He closed out the image after a moment, after the nausea had passed, and looked up to Rollins who was now watching the lieutenant delegating over the phone.

Thumbing back into his texts, he brought up his conversation with Barba, the last message he'd sent the night the D'Amico video had been leaked. Without too much forethought, he wrote out, "Cara's dead. COD pending but initial thought is OD" and hit send.

A moment later, he received a reply, "God that's awful. For many reasons."

"yeah," he wrote back. "i don't know what to think."

Before he received any further reply, the lieutenant waved him over with her free hand.

"I'll meet you there," she spoke into her phone as she waved, "okay, yes, see you there."

Then, pocketing the phone, she spoke to Carisi, filling him in: "That was Dodds. He and I are going to go break the news to Nina and see if she has any more information, any idea about who..." she waved her hands to fill in the words she couldn't articulate, to illustrate the magnitude of what could be underpinning these events.

"If nothing else," she added with a sigh, "we need to make sure she's kept safe for now. But you two -- you should loop in Barba on the Cara development."

"I got it, lieutenant," Carisi chirped, waving the phone gripped in his palm.

"Okay," she replied, her voice betraying a note of curiosity. "Carisi, loop in Barba. Rollins--"

"I'll head back and check on Fin, see if I can't set us up to call on St. Bernadine's again to find out how Cara got the heroin. I'd hate to think there's any more of it floating around there."

"Perfect," Benson replied, dismissing them.

Carisi glanced at his phone again.

Barba had replied moments earlier, "If you want to talk about it, my afternoon isn't as busy as it could be."

And then, after a few minutes, he'd sent a second message: "Though, if you're busy investigating, that's likely the better use of your time."

He wrote back: "lieu wants me to loop you in. should i drop by?"

As Benson left them to their assignments at hand, he caught Rollins' lingering glance. "What'd he say," she asked, nodding to the phone in his hand.

He gave a shrug in response.

The reply was quick this time: "It's certainly better than texting."

"I'm gonna go over there," Carisi said, satisfied, dropping the phone into his coat pocket. "Tell him in person. He doesn't really text."

Rollins repeated: "He doesn't really text. Huh."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always! :)
> 
>  
> 
> [My Tumblr](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

On the walk to the DA's office, Carisi decided to pick up a coffee to clear his head and, manners winning out, figured he'd pick one up for Barba as well. The man was usually swimming in the stuff, but it couldn't hurt to offer a token of thanks, appreciation for taking a moment out of his busy day.

As Carisi waited at the counter, watching the barista pour the inky liquid into matching white cups, his mind wandered back to the examiner's cool voice. He thought of her description of the humanity in Cara's death, the water filling her lungs and how she drowned in her sleep.

It made him feel claustrophobic suddenly, the coffee shop smaller than when he entered. He felt like his natural breathing wasn't deep enough to sustain him, like if he stopped concentrating on the subtle muscle movement he might lose it. He was more grateful for the wide open expanse of city street on his way out the door, and stood idly there in front of the shop for a few moments, breathing, watching the traffic lights change colors.

The sun hung heavy in the sky, and the brisk wind bit at his cheeks as he walked the familiar streets. Taking that first sip of his coffee, he felt as it drew its warm path down his throat into his chest, the lines against his skin conjuring again the image of Cara's dark stitches sprawled from shoulder to shoulder, traveling down somewhere beneath the sheets. He shook his head instinctively then, a tic, as if to knock the memories loose as pebbles, send them scattering away from his mind’s eye.

\---

Carmen sat at her desk outside Barba's office, busy with her computer, and nodded him through without much fanfare. He wished in hindsight he'd thought to bring her coffee too, but filed the thought away under "next time."

He rapped on the glass of the door then, and with no objections voiced, peeked inside. Barba sat, hunched over a mess of files on his desk, tapping on something with a pen. He regarded Carisi's entrance with little more than a glance and nod.

"Sorry to bother ya, counselor," he said, regretful that he seemed doomed to start most of these conversations with an apology. He lifted the second cup as an offering, "I figured I was already getting some so..."

This drew a small smile from the ADA, who leaned back in his chair. "How kind."

Carisi set both coffees on the desk, and seemed to consider the option of sitting in one of the designated chairs, but couldn't bring himself to stop moving. Barba took his coffee from where it had been placed and watched curiously as the detective paced the room.

"So Cara's dead," Carisi said, as though he was continuing along a conversational thread strung between them. "And I mean, a heroin overdose in a halfway house is kind of a no-brainer, am I right?"

He didn't look for the usual response as he made his long-limbed tour of the office, dragging his fingers along the wood grain of Barba's meeting table as he circled it. "But the lieutenant and Rollins, they're running on the theory that she was, ah, _provided_ the means to overdose."

"I see," Barba said, taking a slow sip of the coffee.

"And I can see it," he spread his palms, "right? I mean, the ME didn't rule it out, okay, sure. But then, who? A nun? Really? Come on."

"Is that really out of the realm of possibility?"

Carisi ran his hands through his slicked hair and dropped back into the couch. "I mean, no. But... I dunno." His knees bobbed anxiously as he followed a trail of thought.

"You'd rather it was."

This brought him back to his feet with a start, "I just think that the answer is right in front of us, at least this time. I think we're all caught up in the conspiracy theories cause of vice stonewalling us, and IAB being involved, and the powerful johns and all that. But when you start sayin' that nuns are pumping girls full of heroin to keep 'em quiet, I dunno."

"So take another look around St. Bernadine's," Barba offered. "See if you can't confirm that there's a supply problem there that originates with the girls, not the nuns."

"Yeah," he said, trailing back to the mantelpiece at the far end of the office, "Rollins is setting that up, I think."

"Good. So," Barba set the coffee back on his desk, "is that all you've got?"

Carisi leaned against the mantel and glanced back to Barba, who kept a careful gaze fixed on him.

"At this point," he sighed, "yeah."

"Well then, thank you for keeping me in the loop. It sounds like you are doing your due diligence."

Carisi wandered to the far window and took in the sight of early evening descending over the pedestrians. "The ME, she said her death was humane, at least. That Cara died in her sleep."

"A small mercy," Barba mused.

"Huh. Yeah. I guess."

"Do you--" Barba started, then seemed to reconsider what he was going to say as Carisi began to move again. He tried another tack: "Look, would you sit down already? Your pacing is distracting."

Carisi seemed suddenly aware of his own body, its range of motion, the mileage he'd covered in the few moments he'd been there. Chastened, he mumbled an apology as he made his way back to the couch.

"No need to apologize." Barba came out from behind his desk. "Well, to me, at least. The carpeting you've worn out, perhaps."

Carisi gave him a smirk, but it was half-hearted at best.

"Have a drink," Barba offered.

Carisi glanced at his watch. "I'm still on the clock."

"This is a professional courtesy," Barba said, readying two small glasses from his stash. "A quid pro quo," he gestured back to the coffees on his desk, Carisi’s still relatively untouched. "Besides, realistically, I'm doing your squad a favor."

"How's that?"

"Taking the edge off of," he waved an empty hand at Carisi, "this."

He grinned. "Thanks. I guess that this is probably my last stop today."

"There you go then." He poured a finger of scotch each and joined Carisi on the couch, handing him a glass.

Carisi took a shy sip, barely tasting it before downing the rest in a swift gulp. His cheeks tinged bright and hot as he struggled to mask the overwhelming burn in his throat, the welling prickle behind his eyes.

"This case won't be easy," Barba considered the amber liquid in his own glass as Carisi deposited his, empty, on the low table in front of them. "I have a hunch it's on the precipice of getting much more... difficult. Complex. Take heart, Carisi. I think you'll get through it with your faith intact."

He regarded Barba curiously at that, "My faith?"

Barba downed his drink then, placing the empty glass solidly beside Carisi's. "Your faith. A good quality, in measure."

Carisi chewed on his lip. It wasn't something he thought he needed to hear until he heard it, and at once it felt like a key unlocking the tension that had snaked at the base of his skull.

With that, Barba leaning back into the couch once more, he felt overcome by an awareness of the exact breadth of space he inhabited on the couch. Aware of the edges of his own skin, the thin sliver of air that cut between their two knees as they sat there side-by-side with Barba gazing pensive at some distant point beyond the confines of the room.

He took in the crisp lines of the man's bright tie tucked into his dark vest, the tight wave of his hair, the shadow that hung beneath his brow.

"Thanks again, counselor," his tongue felt thick around the edges of the words. He drew his knees together abruptly, struck by an urgent need to make himself smaller. "For all of this," he opened his palms, "letting me talk it out and all."

The images of Cara that had been pressing at his eyelids were softening now, muting their insistence.

"Have you gotten your results yet?"

"Huh?"

Barba gave him a sidelong glance, "Don't tell me you've forgotten to check."

"Oh, wow," Carisi said, realizing they were now talking about his bar exam results. "Nope. I haven't forgotten -- don't think I could. No results yet, though."

"Unfortunate. You could use a win today."

Carisi's smile was rueful, "That's true."

"Well, it's getting late. I don't want the lieutenant to worry." Barba pressed a palm to Carisi's knee lightly before standing, stretching slightly on his toes and regarding the outer office through the slatted blinds.

Carisi was dumbstruck by the heat that emanated from that spot on his knee, the sparks that trailed along the skin of his thigh and deep into the base of his spine.

_Your faith_. He listened to the words echo between his ears, twine and tangle themselves with his other pocketed sentiment, _suicidal streak_ , until they became a single entity that he tucked away to examine later -- always later.

"Are you okay? Please don't tell me your tolerance for scotch is this low."

"Nah," Carisi ambled to his feet, feeling entirely unsure of what to do with himself, his long limbs, his unsteady heart. "Long day and all."

Still, Barba regarded him with some level of concern. "Will you be okay getting back?"

"Seriously, don't worry about me counselor. That was nothing. I'm just a bit, um--"

"Frayed," he supplied, their eyes meeting. It took Carisi a moment to parse the word Barba had said from his own initial misunderstanding; he'd thought that Barba had said, "Afraid."

Both sentiments were true enough.


	5. Chapter 5

"I agree with Nina," Dodds said, arms crossed, considering the floor as he addressed the squad gathered around their meeting table once more. "Someone gave Cara a hot-shot to shut her up."

"Let's hang on," Carisi cut in from where he stood, "alright? I'm all for paranoia, but who else knew that she was cooperating," he gestured to Benson, "besides us?"

Benson counted them off on her fingers, "Sister Nina, Sister Ida, uh, Barba? And... IAB." With the last admission, she glanced back to Tucker, who stood apart from the rest of the squad, a dark beacon, clearly deep in his own thoughts.

"And the Vice cops," Dodds added. "I mean, they had motive and NYPD computer access."

Tucker cut that line of reasoning short: "Which is why I made sure not to put Cara's name in the system."

"So, no one else at IAB knew," Benson said to Tucker.

He confirmed: "I didn't even tell my partner."

She shrugged at this. Once again they had come to face another brick wall in the case, surrounded by all their webs and pictures and theories that were leading exactly nowhere.

Carisi furrowed his brow, willing the pieces to come together. The nuns, no. No way. Barba, absolutely not. IAB, Vice? That's where he was less certain.

Really, he just felt like they were cutting wide circles around an inevitable truth: an addict in recovery is always, first, an addict. Lately though, he was curbing the instinct to blurt out those blanket statements; they were rarely appreciated.

Benson broke the silence suddenly, rising from her chair as an epiphany washed over her face.

She spoke quietly to Tucker: "But you did ask your cousin about her."

He seemed to consider the weight of what she'd just said, the magnitude, eyes racing around some equation no one else could see.

"Son of a bitch."

\---

Tucker and Benson left together then, hurrying to confront Father Eugene about Cara's death, what he might know. The rest of the squad milled around in their wake, spirits considerably dimmed by the prospect of this new development. Carisi shuffled through his paperwork at his desk, took calls, and endlessly considered the events of the day and the days before it.

That Benson and Tucker were taking a run at Father Eugene again, it made sense in the context of their narrative, this case, but not in the entire picture of his world view, and he found himself getting really caught up in that fact.

Hot-shots and cover-ups, prostitution rings, this was all getting too big to be the work of a single bad egg. It was too insidious, and he didn't care to follow that particular line of thought any further as it pertained to how close they were circling in on the church's involvement.

Carisi checked his phone instinctively, finding it to be as it often was, without any real substantial updates. Out of habit, he checked in on the last message from Bella, a sweet picture of his niece in her car seat. He then flipped over to his recent conversation with Barba, remembering the heat of the scotch, how he'd left with that empty ache at the base of his spine.

He wanted to have something new to say to him, but it would be a betrayal to reveal any detail of the current situation, especially as they all waited for the chips to drop. At this stage, it was the lieutenant's information to disclose. Conversely, he knew a simple hello or check in would be too casual, unwarranted. So, he opted for something in between.

"keeping the faith can be hard at times."

He set the phone down and busied himself with paperwork until he heard it buzz against the wood.

Barba's reply: "Anything I should know about?"

Carisi began to write out a response, but another message came in quickly: "And if so, not through text. You seem determined to text despite being aware of my feelings on the medium."

He considered the message, unsure of how to reply. He couldn't make a call like that in the squad room without drawing attention, especially with everyone so quiet and somber. Ducking out was likely to draw undue attention as well.

A final message came through, "Dinner plans?"

He thought of his evening spread wide in front of him, long and dismal, as they'd been lately. He'd been planning on attending evening Mass if he'd gotten out early enough, something to pass the time, clear his head.

"didn't have any, why?"

The reply came quick: "I hoped it was obvious that I was extending an invitation."

"What's got you all smiles over there, Carisi?" Rollins regarded him from her desk, and her casual callout alerted the room to his private moment. He hadn't been aware of himself until that moment, how he must have looked hunched over his phone and grinning.

"You got any good news?" Fin asked, hopeful.

"My ah-- my sister," he flipped quickly out of his conversation with Barba and back into Bella's messages, where he was able to retrieve a reasonable excuse, "she just sent me this." He turned his phone to display the picture of his niece all bundled in her impossibly small owl hat and matching scarf. "Cute, right?"

"Ah, baby stuff," Fin said, with an air of regret for getting involved.

"Cute," Rollins said, approaching his desk and leaning in to get a better view. "I almost got Jesse a hat like that one," she added, pointing. "I went with the fox one instead."

Her eyes drew up from the picture then, meeting his briefly. She seemed to be trying to read something from his face. He turned the phone back to appraise his niece's attire when he noticed that a notification hung at the top of the screen, alerting him that Barba had sent a message reading, "Stop by after your shift."

If she'd seen it, she made no mention, but she avoided his gaze as she returned to her desk, and continued to avoid it for much of the rest of their quiet afternoon spent waiting on the lieutenant's return.


	6. Chapter 6

Benson returned to the squad room that afternoon without Tucker, clearly shaken to her core by whatever they'd encountered along the trail that led to this moment.

"Nina's out," she announced as she moved, her voice a thin mask over something darker. Without stopping on her well-worn path through the squad room, she continued, "Dodds, my office." He hopped up from his desk and followed dutifully in tow, careful to shut the door behind him. It was becoming a more regular occurrence, their abrupt closed door meetings.

"Nina's out?" Carisi mouthed to Rollins, incredulous. She gave him a half-hearted shrug in return.

After a few moments suspended in the strange silence that overtook them, Benson and Dodds emerged from her office once more, dressed to leave. Addressing the room, Benson said: "We're going to see where Barba is with the warrants for Father Eugene and Father Akintola. I'll keep you updated, because that's going to be our first priority. As soon as we get them, we're going to need all the information we can get, as fast as we can get it."

At the mention of Barba, Carisi stole a glance at Rollins, who seemed to be pointed in her attention paid to the lieutenant. He felt a strange sense of anxiety over what she might be thinking about him, the context of the message lost to her if she even saw the notification. But to address the matter felt like it would be making a mountain of a molehill, and what was there to address, besides?

Once again, in the sudden absence of the lieutenant, an unsettling quiet drew over the squad and it left Carisi fidgety and raw.

"So what was that, huh?" he asked nobody in particular.

"What was what?" Fin shot him a tired look.

"You know," he gestured to Benson's office, "Nina's suddenly out, and Tucker, where'd he go? And now they're going to go lean on Barba for the warrants?"

"Sounds like the visit with Father Eugene was... enlightening," Rollins chimed in, not looking up from her desk.

"Huh." Carisi leaned back in his chair and chewed on the tip of a pen, trying to make sense of it all as it kept spinning.

The deeper into this case they descended, the more things felt like they were at the precipice Barba had mentioned, overlooking a steep drop into complexities that would alter the framework, the family structure he'd come to appreciate at Manhattan SVU.

\--

Evening drew its dark cloak over the squad room before Dodds returned from the visit to Barba, notably without the lieutenant.

"Whatever's going on," he explained, "Barba wouldn't talk about it in front of me."

Carisi perched on the edge of Rollins' desk, rapt as Dodds described the scene to them: Benson and Barba going toe-to-toe on something so serious, so unspeakable, that even Dodds couldn't know about it.

"No warrants yet -- as he puts it, the judges are not being very forthcoming.”

Rollins rolled her eyes.

“And as soon as the lieutenant told him about Nina's reaction to Tucker's family connection, Barba dismissed me. Whatever he said to her, it spooked her enough that she split almost immediately, sent me back here without so much as an explanation. I don't know if it had to do with the Monsignor's visit before us, or what."

"Huh," Carisi said, turning it over in his mind. At face value, the entire exchange didn't make much sense.

"Did you call your dad?" Rollins asked.

"Yeah. He's not calling me back," Dodds checked his phone to illustrate the point. "Someone high up the chain must be starting to sweat."

"Because we're taking on the Catholic Church," Rollins said with a smirk, and then to Carisi, an afterthought: "Sorry."

"No, I get it Rollins. Look, 99% of these priests are good guys. The Church -- they just brought this on themselves. I mean, at least the Monsignor came to Barba on his own, right?" He gestured to Dodds who nodded in agreement, though his face was still uneasy. "That's gotta be a good sign, right?"

Neither Dodds nor Rollins, however, seemed entirely convinced.

"Yeah, they finally realized that transparency's their only salvation," Dodds reasoned.

"If you say so," Rollins said, casting a final look to Carisi, something tinged with pity.

Benson's arrival broke their conversation. "Rollins, Carisi," she directed, eyes glued to her phone as she walked, "get me some evidence boxes, please."

"Yeah, on it," he jumped to his feet, watching her cut that same determined path to her office, delegating as she moved. "Dodds, a minute?"

As they brought the empty boxes to Benson's office, Carisi caught the tail end of her question to Dodds: "Are you telling me you didn't know?"

And as she announced to them that Dodds was now the acting commander of SVU, that she was out effective immediately, all Carisi could think of was that precipice Barba had described and how they'd now officially, all of them, gone over the edge.

\---

As he left the station that night, his mind reeling with the abrupt power shift, Carisi tried to unpack the facts at hand. Something the lieutenant knew, something in the hand she'd played that afternoon, had cost her dearly. It cost her the loyalty of Sister Nina, of Barba, of One-P-P, all in one fell swoop. Now she was being silenced -- but by whom? How high did this go? And why was it worth it to her?

Burying his hands in his coat pockets, he braced against the evening chill outside. Even if Barba likely couldn't elaborate on what had happened to the lieutenant, he might be able to ease the concern Carisi felt mounting -- that Benson's absence would be permanent, that he'd once more be thrust into an unfriendly work environment, or more, that the tendrils of this darkness bore deeper into cracks and crevices that he'd rather not examine.

When he arrived at the D.A.'s office, that looming building ahead, he immediately thought that he should have announced his arrival, sent some sort of message earlier seeking acknowledgement that they were still on for a meal. Having not done so at this point, he thought it was probably too late, and so he made his way to the office, preparing himself for disappointment.

He could see through the outer doorway that Carmen had long since left for the day, but lights were still on and the door seemed to be unlocked. Carisi felt uneasy then -- and checked their messages once more before entering, confirming that he hadn't imagined the invitation.

He gave Barba's door his customary tap before opening it. Inside, however, he found an entirely different scene than he'd imagined. The man sat at his desk, stewing over an empty glass; the bottle sat not far from it, less full than when Carisi had encountered it before. His jacket was discarded and hung over his chair, his tie was loosed from his collar, his vest hung open.

He looked strangely disheveled with all of his pieces only slightly out of place; he seemed smaller by half. A distant sort of sadness hung around him, and his eyes were made sharper by it. It was a look Carisi never would have imagined on the man and he wished, not for the last time that evening, that he had opened any door but this one.

"Sorry ah -- is now not a good time?"

Barba flicked his dark gaze from the empty glass to Carisi caught awkward in the doorway, unsure of where to move. "Detective," he said coolly, then as though remembering something: "Oh. Right."

"Yeah, but it seems like it's not a good time so, I can just--"

"It isn't," Barba cut him off. "I'm afraid--" he pursed his lips, appearing to arrange his next words carefully before he spoke them, "we'll have to... postpone. For now." He bore his gaze into a point on his desk, adding quietly, "I'm sorry, Carisi."

"Hey," he held up a hand, "Don't worry about it. I uh-- have a good night, counselor."

Carisi shut the door behind him, not waiting for any response and instead willing his long legs to take him as quickly away from the building as possible.

As he made his way home, each mile put between him and the scene further unraveling the tight knot in his throat, he found himself wondering which prospect worried him more: that he would never understand what he'd just seen, or that he'd soon come to understand it fully.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am seriously humbled by the kind reception I've received for this story! Thank you all from the bottom of my endlessly nerdy heart.

Carisi barely slept that night for all the nightmares that found him: the dreams of drowning girls shimmering just beneath the surface of some endless lake. Dreams of crying nuns pacing in dark hallways, dreams of working a case where his niece had gone missing months before and he'd only just found out. All the solutions were always just out of reach: the winding streets he couldn't navigate, documents with missing pages, time slipping endlessly away from him.

He felt like hell the next morning in the white early sunlight. He felt like hell even after two cups of coffee and a bathroom detour to splash cold water on his face; even after a check in with Bella to see what their weekend looked like, if he could drop by sometime to say hi, only partly an attempt to confirm the dream about his niece was just that.

Walking into the squad room and acknowledging the lieutenant's empty office, exposed as an open wound, it only felt like a long form continuation of the nightmares that plagued him. A reminder of all the things spinning just beyond his grasp.

Deputy Chief Dodds had graced the squad with his presence that morning, all bluster and bravado, to explain where they were now. His intention was twofold: to reaffirm his son as the new head in Lieutenant Benson’s absence, his pride at this an obvious underpinning, and to remind them that their best efforts now must be in service to the investigation at hand.

As soon as his father left, the sergeant assured them that this wasn't his call, and Carisi could see the uncertainty that hung between Fin and Rollins. They didn't trust that answer, and who could blame them? Carisi had a mind that it was Dodds' father, and not Dodds, who was so focused on the view from the top. He knew that feeling a little, a father's aspirations, though maybe he envied it more.

"I'm gonna need your help," Dodds spoke earnestly then, and Carisi couldn't help but feel for the guy in his position.

He stood with a firm nod, "Copy that, Sergeant." His words were meant as much for Fin and Rollins, his clumsy attempt at keeping the family together, at keeping the peace.

Sounding as tired as Carisi felt, Rollins chimed in: "What are we supposed to do?"

"Well," Dodds continued, "Since the lieutenant has been recused because of the allegations against Captain Tucker--"

Fin cut in, "What's that got to do with Liv?"

"I can't speak to that," Dodds said, "and neither should any of you."

Carisi furrowed his brow. Honestly, what could the lieutenant have to do with allegations made against Tucker? How bad was her connection, too, that it could have such a profound effect on Barba, whose demeanor last night must have been related. None of it made sense, the nature of these allegations juxtaposed with the image of Olivia Benson, the woman whose life revolved around this job, around the safety of the very women at the heart of this case.

Dodds continued, "But since charges have been made against Tucker, Barba's been pressuring us to follow up on them. So," he gestured around the room, "start following up."

In the quiet that followed, Fin gave them both, Carisi and Rollins, lingering looks full of disapproval that he'd rightfully earned over his many years working alongside the lieutenant.

His gaze settled finally on Carisi: "Barba's pressuring us, huh?"

Carisi shrugged in response, slightly uneasy for earning the question. It wasn't ideal, but it was where they were, and what else could they do but plod forward? Dodds' father had said their best hope was that the lieutenant's leave of absence was temporary, and he figured anything he did on the case from here on out was towards making that a reality.

"Okay, so, we follow up," Rollins said. "What angle?"

"Well, it seems like Father Eugene and the Monsignor were the ones who made the allegations," Carisi offered, shuffling some files on his desk.

"Convenient." Rollins no longer bothered to hide her disdain.

"Vice too," Fin added.

"Yeah, well, alright," Carisi conceded, "So those three, that's where we should start, probably."

To that end, Carisi invited Monsignor Mulregan and Father Eugene to come into the station that morning to go over their records, or really anything they could think of that might help the case. On the phone, the Monsignor said that he had proof that he'd contacted Tucker a year ago making him aware of the involvement of vice cops in trafficking girls from St. Fabiola's. If true, it stood to be pretty damning.

After hanging up with the Monsignor, Carisi felt unable to simply wait on their arrival. The nervous energy running through his bones was almost painful in its resonance, its vibrations in his shins. When he saw Rollins head for her morning coffee, he followed quick, eager to make small talk, to take his mind off everything.

He perched on the table beside her as she worked the machine and made an attempt to catch her eye.

"You need somethin'?" She regarded the empty cup she'd set beneath the nozzle as she spoke, watched the hissing stream of coffee as it dropped.

"Nah. Wanted to let you know the Monsignor and Father Eugene are coming in."

"Alright. Fin's talking to vice, they're real eager to drop by too."

He hitched a hand at his belt, idly running his thumb along the badge hung there. "Can you take one of the priests’ statements then?"

"I guess, yeah. Sure."

She replaced her full cup with an empty and, with an affirmative nod from him, dialed in a second coffee. "So. What's Barba's angle on all this?"

"What do you mean?"

She took a seat at the table facing him and gave an air quote as she spoke: "Pressure."

"Ah, yeah, I dunno anything about that."

The slightest hint of a smirk passed over her face, gone in an instant, scrutiny replacing it. "Really?"

"Yeah, Rollins. Really." He took his full cup from the machine, feeling the hairs prickle at the nape of his neck.

First Fin, now her.

"What, you think he tells me anything different than the rest of us?"

She tilted her head then, brow furrowed, the unspoken words hanging between them: _Doesn't he?_

He gave a snort. "He doesn't."

"Alright," she said into her cup as she took a slow sip. Her tone sounded anything but.

A thousand sentences were born in that moment, all fizzling before they could completely form. Carisi wanted to ask her if she saw the text message, wanted to tell her he hadn't even met with the man last night, wanted to unpack the scene he'd walked in on instead, wanted to explain himself somehow, wanted to speculate on the lieutenant’s recusal. Really, honestly, he wanted to talk about anything but this case, maybe about Jesse, maybe about television.

Unable to will his mouth around any conciliatory words, he settled at last on a tight smile as he left the room, the coffee hot in his hand.

\---

When the Monsignor was brought to Carisi's desk, decked in his dark garb with the white collar peeking at his neck, silver cross hanging at his sternum, Carisi felt a familiar welling of childish deference. He stood in greeting, feeling smaller in the man's presence, a rare occurrence considering his stature. He felt fourteen again as he flanked him through the squad room, a hollow vessel of shameful secrets.

 _Your faith. A good quality, in measure_ , Barba had said of him, and Carisi certainly struggled to keep it measured as he sat with the Monsignor in one of the rooms for questioning. He attempted to parse out the soothing quality of the Monsignor's voice for what it was -- an aspect of the man, not the sum. He fought against his natural inclination to believe, to trust in his placid affect, his righteous tone.

But the man was nothing if not trustworthy, earnest in his endeavor to end the violence against the young girls in his flock. He brought his evidence with him, a photocopied letter on the school's official letterhead stating all of the things they needed it to state. The dates matched up, the names and times, the basic facts of the situation.

How hard would it be to believe that Tucker, a man who wielded a great power within the system, buried this? That he was somehow engaging in it, more likely profiting from it? He whose legacy of slights against SVU was not unknown to someone even as new as Carisi.

And yet, he couldn't shake the nagging thought that his lieutenant trusted Tucker still, enough to be recused of her valued position in light of these allegations. She stood by him, even now, and her loyalty was not a variable to be taken lightly.

He brought the Monsignor's letter to the sergeant, where Rollins and Fin had each handed in their own corroborating evidence provided by Father Eugene and the vice cops respectively. It all fit neatly into place; fashioned a sharp-edged shadow over the image of Tucker.

And true, nothing had fit as easy as this until now, these sheets of paper that Dodds collected into a single manila folder, but wasn't that how it worked sometimes?

"Either Tucker's dirty," Fin mused, watching Dodds pack the evidence away, "or somebody's setting him up good." Carisi couldn't figure where he fell on that line of thought, but wasn't given much of an opportunity to ruminate before Dodds cut in.

"Next problem: the lieutenant called. Sister Nina might be in trouble."


	8. Chapter 8

"Yeah, alright. Thanks again for your help."

Carisi ended the call and slipped the phone once more into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled his collar up tight around his ears as he watched Dodds pace in the parking lot of St. Swithens, making his own set of calls. Their breath climbed the crisp air in smoky wisps; the chill bit at his skin until the thins of his ears were raw and hot to the touch. The sky that afternoon was a deep cloudless blue, sunlight glinting off of the dusky cross on the front of the church. It felt too pristine, too picturesque a moment for their endeavor at hand.

After the reverend at St. Swithens had indicated that Nina's disappearance in his church's van might have been towards the greater pursuit of escaping town with some of the trafficking victims, Carisi and Dodds had split the girls' contact information between them to try and ascertain who might have heard from Nina, who might have disappeared with her, or better, who might know where she was headed and why her phone had been turned off.

He hadn't had much luck personally. The girls whose families he called were entirely accounted for, and while true they'd all heard from Nina that morning, each girl thought that the nun wasn't making sense. None of them had any idea where she was going, of course, because nothing in this case came easy or straightforward when it wasn't pointing in a singular, very specific direction. 

In his attempt to relay this to the sergeant, the lack of concrete information he'd come across, he was met with the man's index finger as Dodds continued speaking into his own phone.

"Do you know which hospital she went to?"

"Hospital?" Carisi felt his stomach clench at the word.

"Okay, thank you." Dodds hung up and began heading toward their car. "Natalia's foster mother -- she said Natalia left early this morning, didn't say where she was going."

Carisi kept pace. "And now she's at the hospital?"

"Yeah. She OD'ed."

Because of course she did.

Carisi reached for the passenger door, but found himself instead slamming a tight fist on the roof of the car, the impulse and its resulting shock of sound surprising even himself. He spun away from the car with the impact and paced back into the parking lot, cutting a sharp circle as the metal reverberated through the bones of his hand, twisted at his stomach.

He pushed that throbbing knot against his mouth to silence it, to silence everything in that moment: the birdsong, the shifting leaves, the distant traffic, the echo of the reverend's words in the church: "we were in love."

Dodds had pulled the driver-side door open and stood, shielded by it, watching wary as Carisi pulled himself together in the span of a few quick motions: smoothing his jacket, running his good hand through his hair, shaking his head as though trying to clear the memory. The two got into the car then, and as they pulled out of the empty parking lot and onto the suburban streets, neither spoke of the moment that had passed.

\---

They drove towards the hospital in relative silence. Carisi was usually good to fill the car with aimless chatter, but he couldn't find a point to start from, and Dodds seemed occupied enough with the traffic that he didn't feel the need besides. He absently fiddled with his phone until it began to vibrate in his hand, startling him from his thoughts.

"Carisi," he answered the call, not bothering to check who was on the other line.

"Carisi, hey," Rollins sounded a bit breathless. "Where are you guys?"

He glanced at Dodds who kept his eyes on the road, "Rollins, yeah we're making our way to the hospital, what's going on?"

"Don't. Natalia's awake already, talking with Fin right now. She didn't OD on her own, she was given the heroin."

"What?"

"Yeah, she says that they, her and Sister Nina, were driven off the road and kidnapped by a black priest with an African accent. Sound familiar?"

"Damn it," he muttered, biting hard at his bottom lip to keep from saying more.

"Natalia says he raped and killed Nina, made her watch as some sort of punishment, a threat against talking. Nina's out there in the woods, we've got a good idea where now."

"We're on it, then" Carisi said, his voice splintering under the weight of it all. He gestured to Dodds to pull off when he could.

"We're alerting the local precincts to start canvassing, I'll send you guys the location. Hey Carisi, you okay?"

"I'm fine. Send the information, we'll head out that way."

"Okay," she sounded wary, and at once Carisi resented the tone, the implication, the way people seemed to all be waiting for him to crack.

"I said I'm fine," he reiterated. "We're fine."

"Okay, okay Carisi. I got it. I'll send the information."

"Thanks." He hung up.

"What's going on?" Dodds asked as he pulled the car into a parking lot to idle.

"The hospital," he wagged his phone. "Natalia was awake and lucid, told Rollins and Fin that she and Nina had been run off the road and kidnapped by Father Akintola."

The next sentence hitched in his throat; he had to fight to get it out. "She says he... raped and killed Nina. Said her body's in the woods, Rollins is sending us the location, alerting the local precincts to get a head start."

"Jesus," Dodds exhaled slowly.

"Yeah. It gets better. Natalia says he gave her the heroin."

Dodds dragged fingers through his hair, processing. "Same MO as Cara."

"Yep."

Carisi's phone buzzed again, and Rollins had sent the location.

"It'll be getting dark soon," Dodds considered the horizon with a frown as he turned the car around, ventured back into traffic.

Carisi opened his messages, first thanking Rollins for providing the location. He flipped into his thread with Bella, letting her know that he wouldn't be by tonight after all, that they'd caught a lead in the case and he'd have to postpone.

He reread his message after sending it, thinking of Barba then, the way the man had dragged out the word "postpone" in his office. He thought of how he hadn't heard from him since, not that there was any particular reason that he should have. Despite what Rollins seemed to believe, he wasn’t afforded anything extra.

Carisi had an impulse to message him then, provide some glimpse of the case to see if it would garner a response, but the prospect felt pointless and without any of the excitement usually reserved for the promise of their conversations.

\---

The woods seemed deeper in the darkness, hours since they began their endless search through all the twisting roots obscured in fallen leaves. The air had a wet bite to it out there as their boots crunched through the brush and branches. Beams of light cut sharp through the dusky mist, glowed like distant starlight as the dogs panted and pulled at their leads.

Carisi cut tireless through the uniforms as they searched until he found the two men who had stopped in stunned and reverent silence. Their flashlights illuminated her body, Sister Nina discarded among the leaves. "Sergeant," he called out, his voice raw. "Sergeant, they found her."

She was laid out and frozen in time, still bird-like and small as when they'd sat across from one another, wary, each judging the other's involvement in the case at hand. All her paranoia and fear had turned out to be well-earned in the end. This was how she was repaid for her dogged pursuit. For never quitting, the reverend had said, not even the church.

He thought he'd never fully lose the horror of Cara in that bed beneath her crucifix, the last things she must have seen, her tourniquet loose around her arm, that pin prick blossoming. But that was a "humane death" -- and this? This flashbulb moment in the woods threatened to eclipse that entirely.

Everything around him dimmed into nothing until he was alone in the clearing with Sister Nina, her face caked with dried blood, her eyes still looking anywhere beyond him. Dodds spoke behind him, maybe to him, but it faded to soft static as unsteady beams of light dragged over her body, made halos behind her head.

As he knelt beside her.

As his heart ratcheted hard against his ribs.

As he drew a cross and whispered a prayer for her soul, the prayer that had caught in his throat for Cara.

The wet leaves prickled cold against his knees as he knelt, as he prayed. He replayed so many moments that came before this one, examined their loose threads, turned them over for their different angles, searched for some path untraveled that could have led them to somewhere that was not here, not this.

Legs aching, he sank back onto a fallen log nearby. Dodds' voice became clearer, he was calling in to report her body found, directing the uniforms to block off the scene, to prepare for CSU.

Carisi thought about his faith then as a thing, tangible, like the collar and the cross. He thought about how slippery it felt out here in the mist and wet woods, in all the spilled blood, in the dew and holy water collecting in their lungs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com)
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> & a side note: when I started this, I had a mind to separate works by their respective episodes (because I have it kinda mapped to go to the end of s17) -- but I've abandoned that idea cause it seems kinda arbitrary as I've been working on it. So for now, if/when this crosses into more episodes I'll just add to the tags. (It may split at some point, but my mind changes on that pretty much every time I work on it, and I've babbled enough for now!)


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my most ardent attempts, the posting has almost caught up with the writing and so updates will probably be weekly (unless I get another burst of manic inspiration, thanks brain that was a fun week).

In the wake of Sister Nina's death, the screaming headlines and late night news cycle poring endlessly over her life of good deeds, all the sadness she left behind, the squad found themselves shut out by every church-related avenue they tried.

The phone calls went unanswered, the long hours spent staked out in waiting rooms went unnoticed. The priests were forever in seclusion, in prayer, in hiding, had no time for their questions.

Carisi found himself with a lot of idle time in his waiting for people who would never show. He had time to consider everything, all the details: the laced pattern of dried blood draped like cloth over Nina's jaw; the way the reverend at St. Swithens had spoken of her, his voice raw-edged with worry and love. The warm way the Monsignor had gripped his shoulder as he made to leave the interview room that morning, the morning of Nina's death, so confident that he had given the damning evidence necessary to stop the violence, and yet.

The pain that spiked over Father Akintola's face when they talked of Cara and her struggle, and how wrong he'd been about the man in that moment, his trust so easily misplaced. How that priest, if he even was one, could feign such pious compassion, such broken-heartedness over girls he would kill. _Did kill_ , he revised in his mind.

With the church appearing to close in on itself so quickly, and with neither Rollins nor Fin getting any better answers in their individual pursuits, Dodds had called in Barba that evening to brief him on the latest developments; how Father Akintola was in the wind now that he'd been named for supplying the heroin, for being responsible for Nina's rape and murder. More important now than ever, they needed the priests' financials. They needed the warrants.

The ADA's arrival was the first time that Carisi had seen Barba since he'd walked in on... whatever he'd walked in on. Tonight, the man looked back to his normal self, nothing like before. He was put together neatly with hints of vibrant color beneath his dark jacket, a sharp purple tie contrasting the charcoal of his suit. He met every angle they presented with a razor-sharp quip, a flick of his brow, a narrow smirk.

He was, radiantly, himself again.

"Whoever the players are in all of this," Rollins said in summary of where they were, gesturing wide to the web of pictures, all their scrawled notes on the walls, "they are closing ranks fast."

Fin picked up her thread, "And killing Sister Nina like that? They're sending a message."

"Alright," Dodds cut in, "So Barba, where are we on warrants?"

Barba flashed a grin, "As of last count I have...three judges not getting back to me."

"Well what do you expect," Fin said, "no judge wants to take on the church."

"Hang on a second," Carisi said, advancing on the board where they'd kept track of all the johns they had picked up at the sting. "What about this guy?"

He pointed to a solemn portrait that had been labeled: "New York City Judge."

Barba's face lit up as he followed in Carisi's path, "Ah, yes, Judge Wheeler. You know, he _still_ maintains that he thought the sex party was a fundraiser."

"Yeah?" Carisi warmed at the direct address, the thought of that moment they'd shared in the hallway the night of the party, the night of the arrests. It felt like months had passed since he and Barba were joking about that same inevitable story all the johns would tell, would stick to despite it all.

The perception of the case that lay in front of them that night was like the tiniest glimpse of a distant iceberg; one whose depths were still, even now, unmapped, far beyond comprehension.

"Yeah, well, I still have surveillance photos of this guy groping a 16 year old girl on his lap."

"Well done, Carisi," Barba said, the statement earning a proud smile from the detective. "I'm sure he'll enjoy that walk down memory lane."

"Let's get moving on that, then." Dodds said, effectively dismissing the meeting. "Carisi, take Fin with you to see Judge Wheeler. Getting those warrants is top priority now."

"Will do, Sarge," Carisi said, still glowing from the praise, from their banter clearly restored despite whatever he'd encountered in Barba's office. He gave a glance to Fin who, judging by his affect, hadn't anticipated being roped in on this.

"I'll meet you outside, Carisi," Fin gestured for him to go, "I gotta make a call first."

Barba hung back as the detectives dispersed, remaining stationed at the board of johns. He considered the judge's posed portrait among the collection of other glossy smiles and important titles to have been rounded up that evening. Carisi watched him scrutinize each of their faces, trying himself not to stare too obviously as he donned his coat and retrieved the folder of surveillance photos from his desk.

Then, as if suddenly broken of whatever spell the pictures held over him, Barba wandered back out into the bullpen with a shake of his head, and made a show of checking his phone before he left.

He slowed as he passed Carisi's desk, tapping a knuckle on the corner. "Walk you out, detective?"

"Sure, counselor."

He glanced around, but no one seemed to have noticed the exchange. Fin was hunched at his desk, covering his mouth as he spoke into his phone. Barba had continued walking and Carisi only needed a few broad steps to catch up. They flanked each other quietly in the hallway, and Carisi was quick to hold the elevator doors for him as they parted.

Once the doors slid shut, enclosing them in the moment, Barba spoke: "I wanted to... apologize. For the other night."

"Nah, it's cool," Carisi cut in. "There's a lot going on, I understand."

"You don't," his reply was quick. Then, softer, he added, "But that's how it goes."

Carisi waited a beat, hoping for further explanation, but none came. He knew better than to press, knew that anything about the recusal was off limits at this point.

Barba fiddled with his phone, preoccupied with it as he spoke: "How are you holding up?"

"Alright," Carisi replied, though it wasn't the truth, not by a long shot, and he worried his voice betrayed that. 

"I heard you were out there when they found Sister Nina." The elevator chimed and its doors slid open again, revealing them once more to the muted traffic of the building.

"Part of the job," Carisi said, wondering who had decided to share that particular insight with him. "One of the worst parts, yeah, but," he twitched his shoulders in a tight shrug, fighting against the visceral memory that washed over him: wet leaves against the cloth of his pants.

Once outside in the evening air and the familiar soundtrack of the street, Carisi planted himself a short distance from the building to wait for Fin. Barba stopped there as well, seeming to consider where he would go next.

He gave Carisi a final look, appraising the whole of him, and said, "Well. Don't forget to keep me posted, detective. And... stay safe."

As he moved to pass Carisi, to join the pedestrian traffic, he caught the detective's shoulder with his hand, squeezed it lightly, his thumb swiping across the broad plane.

Carisi turned to watch the man as he left, so quickly blending into the tapestry of the city. He wondered if Barba would spare a glance back, but he didn't, and then he was gone, swallowed easily into the night.

His arm felt warmer there for the touch, a glow that spread into his fingers, snaked around his collar, his jaw. He couldn't help the dumb smile that followed, and the eventual wave of guilt thereafter.

"You ready?" Fin appeared at his side, "Let's get this over with. I want to get home at some point today, you know?"

"Yeah I got you," Carisi clapped the man's shoulder, curious about his phone call and urgent need to get home. Fin was, as he’d learned early on, not someone who answered those kinds of questions.

Energized then, in part by the slam dunk photographs, in part by Barba's confidence in him, Carisi continued, "Let's go see what the good judge thinks about these photos."


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (content notes at the end)

Carisi was making his way home after the meeting with Judge Wheeler, and though it was on the later side of the evening, he felt the need to brag a bit to Barba after his win. His and Fin's win, really, but that was neither here nor there.

He'd sent as much to Dodds and Rollins in texts, cautioning them to prepare for incoming warrants, because of course Judge Wheeler wanted those pictures to disappear. He thought that Barba deserved to know as well, and what better than directly from the source of their success. Since he'd made clear his feelings on texting, Carisi thought it was as good an excuse as any to make a call.

"So Judge Wheeler came around after all," he began without so much as a greeting. "We're getting the warrants."

"What a surprise." The background of the call was a bit noisy on Barba's end, but he could make out a note of amusement. "Well. Nice work, Carisi. Those warrants likely would have eluded us without your... intervention."

He beamed, the simple acknowledgement of his effort seeming to brighten the city around him. It was collected among the most direct praise he'd likely ever earned from Barba, not to mention the second remark in a single day which had to be some sort of personal record.

"Thanks" he replied. "Yeah, he agreed with our view of things, how the pictures might not look so good if--"

"You know I can't hear about this," Barba cut in, "not really, anyway. Let's just agree that the judge... remembered his good sense."

"Alright, yeah I get it counselor. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know. You asked to be kept in the loop and all."

"That I did. I appreciate the good news. Well, I'm finishing some paperwork at The Dakota."

"I'll let ya go then, I just wanted to-- well, you know."

"Yes, I got it."

Carisi began to blunder his way into a goodbye, but Barba continued: "I could be... convinced to have another nightcap if you were looking for somewhere to celebrate your victory."

He looked around the street as though someone might have noticed the temperature shift, the sudden blast of heat that prickled at his cheeks. Everything about this conversation seemed out of place, as though he were talking to an entirely different person, one who at the very least hadn't bailed on the same kind of invitation within the past week and given no explanation for it.

"Uh, yeah, that sounds good actually. I'll probably be around twenty minutes or so, I was heading home so I'll have to reroute."

"Oh well, I don't want to detour you from that--"

"Nah, I'd like to. Hasn't been much to celebrate lately. Would be nice to, ah, have something else to think about for a while."

"Well. I'll be here then."

"Alright counselor. See ya there."

\---

As he descended into a subway station, his thoughts wandered to glow in his stomach born from how hard he had to work for these brief windows of genuine praise. How he found himself driven to try harder lately, always chasing that light, the shine it put on even his groggiest morning routine.

And really, it all boiled down to how he'd become a better person for it. He’d become a better detective and a better student in a matter of months because of that all-consuming drive.

When he'd told Barba that passing the bar would be in part due to his guidance, it wasn't an exaggeration. He may not have been aware of some of that influence as it existed between the lines of his words and actions, sure, but it was a major contribution nonetheless.

Carisi rode the subway a few stops, marveling at the strangers that entered and exited his train car, all swaying their weight with the movement on the tracks as they navigated between standing and sitting. All the different lives they led crossing paths for just this brief moment, or maybe this moment every day. All the secrets they held, their great loves and losses, all things he'd likely never know about, that they'd never know about each other.

As his thoughts circled back once more to the mounting flutter in his stomach at the promise of the evening, he thought that he ought to admit to himself that it was a crush he was nursing on Barba. True, maybe it was some evolution of the admiration and esteem he had for the guy, flowering from that earnest hero worship he always felt around all these important men.

But more than that it was a crush, almost childish in its simplicity. And maybe this act of admission would help him move past it.

This was a suggestion once made to him in confessional as he struggled with a similar scenario as a teen, admiration that had boiled over into something more profound, and at the time it had helped immensely. It wasn't the feeling as much as the action that defined a man, the priest had said to him through the grate of the confessional, and it altered his then-dire perspective, all bathed in brimstone and scripture.

This had become the principle he'd lived by ever since, though truthfully the situation hadn't popped up as much beyond his teenage years to test it. He'd had girlfriends that he liked, one that he loved maybe, and he thought that would be the way it always was. He hadn't often thought about the feelings he'd confessed to since then, that shaggy-haired boy from high school, his bass guitar, his mischievous grin.

But as he encountered those feelings so acutely now, the depth more realized as he entered his thirties, more all-consuming, he struggled with the application of the principle. He felt that, truth be told, he was being a bit deceptive if he maintained that he wasn't acting on these feelings as he made his way across the city, all live-wire excitement.

Dishonest if he maintained the belief in spite of how he was always looking, searching between the lines for something: a sign, a mutual understanding. He thought he found it in that moment in the hallway, waiting for the jury to come back in the D'Amico case, the expression on Barba one he'd never seen before.

Despite the fact that the moment was over before it began, Carisi hadn't lost sight of it, even now. He carried it with him always, its edges well-worn for all the time he spent turning it over in his mind, wandering back to it in late nights to rewrite the ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, and some in the future, deals a little bit with my interpretation of Carisi as having some Catholic Guilt™ about his developing feelings, so I am writing with that perspective (while being, personally, not someone with any of this experience). 
> 
> The overall arc of this story aims to remain true to the ultimate fact that Carisi said (or would have said... sigh s18...) in the future, during 18x19: Conversion, that [he separates himself from Catholicism's view of homosexuality](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com/post/162591424373/carisiismyhomeboy-shadowassassin32-a-scene). It's this story's contention that there's a slight journey to get there, at least in his application of the ideal to himself :) 
> 
> I also definitely took inspiration from other stories on here as to why/how he feels a priest saved his life, so I am indebted to those writers for those ideas.
> 
> Also, the more you know: The Dakota is a real location that I am positive is nothing like I describe. Sorry random NYC bar for roping you into this.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your kind reception of this story from the absolute bottom of my heart <3
> 
> These two chapters (11/12) were kind of a doozy so if you see something weird, let me know. I've edited them as much as I can without my eyes bleeding.

Once inside the bar, Carisi was afforded the rare opportunity to approach Barba without his usual apologetic greeting. He made his way towards the back of the room, slipping easily through the evening bustle. The mirrored backdrop glittered with the reflection of patrons perched at their tall tables against the walls, the tiers of liquor bottles in various states of fill.

A young bartender with a complicated haircut wiped aimlessly at a section of the marbled bar top, slightly down from where Carisi had spotted Barba, alone with his work. He was mulling over a legal pad tucked in its leather case; a fat glass of scotch sat beside him, drained to dregs.

Barba scribbled intently, his brow wound tight in concentration as he worked. He looked almost serene in his focus, as though the preoccupation smoothed his edges. His clothes had lost the sharpness of the day, his waistcoat unbuttoned, his tie hung loose, his sleeves rolled to his elbows. Not disheveled, just soft.

Though he hated to disturb this captivating image, Barba so unwound, Carisi realized it'd be worse than fumbling through his usual greeting if he was caught simply standing there, dumbstruck and staring.

"Hey counselor," he said in his approach, laying a friendly palm on Barba's shoulder as he adjusted his lanky limbs around the barstool to his right.

"Carisi," he said in greeting, shooting him a quick glance and smile. He returned to his page for another moment, jotting a few final notes before shutting the case and setting his pen down. He signaled the bartender over and tapped his own glass.

"I'll have another, and..." he gestured to Carisi, who hemmed for a moment, appraising their taps.

"I'll have... the Breakside IPA and a shot of jack."

As the bartender left to fill their orders, Barba gave him a skeptical look. "Is that what's considered a nightcap these days? Seems more like a kickoff."

"Hey, you said it was a celebration. We finally got a break -- one that feels earned instead of, you know, presented."

Barba looked as though he was fighting the emergence of a smile. This was a favorite expression of Carisi's: his ardent attempts to appear unaffected, above it all. He particularly liked to be the inspiration for it.

"Anyway," he continued, gesturing to the leather case, "what are you workin' on here?"

"Oh, just some prep work. Nothing exciting."

"Nah, it's all kinda exciting to me still," he said, earnest. "Cases like these, they make me wonder sometimes if I'm in it for the long haul. The police work that is."

Barba brushed the case idly. "I'm afraid your sitting for the bar gave that bit of insight away already."

"Fair. Yeah, maybe. I mean, I'm not sure though."

"You get the same problems on my side of the desk, for what it's worth. Just different expectations."

The bartender returned with their drinks, setting them down with a vague smile. A tattoo on his bicep inched just beneath his shirt sleeve as he leaned: scrollwork, a bit of a gothic font though its phrase unreadable, and Carisi found himself again wondering about the lives of people he would never know, all the choices they've made.

He took the shot greedily then, instantly warmed by the flame running down his throat, his muscles made mercifully looser by it. Barba watched him, betraying a bit of amusement at something, he wasn't sure what.

But as the reality of it settled, the two of them huddled close over drinks, relaxing, casual in a way that they hadn't really been before, Carisi felt a mounting sense of awareness of how he looked. The depth of his admiration for Barba had to saturate every glance he sent his way, filling all the white space between them until he felt like he was drowning in it.

He felt wholly transparent; he felt like any moment Barba would call him out on it.

Carisi wiped at the back of his neck and attempted to talk over his thoughts. "S'just this case, yeah? It's been... a lot. On all of us, really. Plus, with the lieutenant gone..." he trailed off at that, in part hoping that Barba might pick up that slack from earlier, their elevator ride.

But he took a different path: "Yes, how's Dodds doing in her place?"

Carisi laid out a palm and instead hedged his bets, "He's alright, but seriously counselor, do you really think the lieutenant is involved with this stuff? Benson? Come on."

"You know I can't talk to you about that." Barba's expression darkened, "You don't think I invited you out to gossip, do you?"

"Alright, alright," Carisi pulled back his palm defensively. "Yeah, no, I get it. It was worth a shot, I mean, hey, it cost me a nice dinner, so I figured I might get an explanation someday."

"I didn't know it mattered that much," he replied, a sly smile cracking over his cooled expression. "The dinner, I mean. Though, to be clear, I never said it would be nice."

The statement hung between them for a beat. Carisi couldn't help the sheepish smile that threatened to overtake him, and so he buried it in a thick gulp of beer.

True, in his thoughts on the day of the invitation, he may have assumed it would be a _nice_ dinner due to Barba's, well, his clear appreciation of the finer things in life, and the fact that he likely wouldn't settle for less.

He couldn't quite imagine grabbing a slice of pizza with the guy -- although, at the same time, he sort of could, and the sudden image only fanned the flames he was sure to eventually die by.

Really, though, he'd meant nice in the simplest form of the word: a nice time, and it seemed like Barba had picked up on the nuance as he was once again fighting hard against some winning smile.

"Yeah," Carisi said, too fighting his own dumb smile. "I don't know where I got that idea from."

Barba appraised him for a moment, taking in the detail of him and once again leaving Carisi sure that his innermost thoughts were being projected on the walls. Whatever he saw in Carisi's face though, it seemed to disappoint him.

"It hit close to home. Liv's thing." He turned away from Carisi then, regarding the wall behind the bar, the liquor bottles lining the shelves.

"Counselor, I get it, we don't--"

"You don't get it." Barba's voice was soft and clipped as he cut Carisi off. "That's what I've been trying to explain to you. It's complicated. I told you things would get complicated and they did."

"I feel like we're talking about different things."

"I'm talking about… I canceled dinner because Liv's issue that afternoon, it hit close to home." He seemed to consider his words before continuing, "It drove home... a truth. A number of truths, really, but one in particular I was trying to avoid."

"What's that?"

"Subtle." Barba smirked, the shift in his mood once again abrupt.

Carisi shrugged. "I've never really been described as subtle, so all due respect, it's a weak insult coming from you."

He wanted to push past the deflection and chanced the humor, but he could tell it wouldn't information be easily earned, and not by a single joke at his own expense.

Barba softened a bit, almost smiled. "It wasn't my best. You do regularly carry yourself with all the subtlety of a freight train. It's a well-established fact."

The image, the undeniable truth of it, gave them both a good chuckle.

As the humor faded, they settled into a comfortable silence punctuated by sips of their drinks. They watched the bar crowd bustle around them, patrons arriving and leaving, regarding each other over their drinks, their menus.

Carisi knew he'd lost the moment to continue down that path of questioning. It felt like a tennis volley, the ball now rolled far from the field, irretrievable. He couldn't even figure out how to revive the earlier conversation, the light banter.

He began to tug at it in his mind, the recusal: what was said, or more what wasn't.

Dodds had told the squad that the lieutenant's recusal was related to the allegations made against Tucker, those allegations being that he was chief in covering up NYPD's connection to the trafficking ring in order to profit from it, maybe even participate in it.

It seemed highly improbable that she played any part in that, something so salacious. The image of the decorated lieutenant, the strong-willed single mother, the sum of Olivia Benson, there was just no way. If there was, if that's what this was, Carisi couldn't be sure of how he'd ever reclaim a shred of faith in humanity.

So he turned it over in his mind: what if her connection was not with Tucker's involvement in the ring as much as it was with Tucker himself. A personal attachment -- that would explain her loyalty despite it all, her investment in the case even now, all in an apparent effort to clear his name first.

But that wasn't like her, not exactly. Not at all, really, when you considered Tucker's history, her own reputation and how she was putting it on the line for him. But as Carisi tried to piece it all together, the facts that had been given to him, his own observations, it all seemed to fit neatly into the assumption.

He followed that theory to its logical conclusion then, the thought like a pinprick deflating his mood. It would have been their involvement -- the uncovering of that fact -- that shook Barba so profoundly that afternoon in their closed door meeting. That fact would have led ultimately to her recusal and his... stewing.

He cast a sidelong glance at Barba, watching as the man fielded something on his phone, biting his bottom lip as he read a message and then glancing around as though it had given him notice of someone. Carisi was too stuck on finishing the puzzle to give it much thought.

The lieutenant's entanglement, it drove home some sense of... what? A greater truth, Barba had said.

And what truth was made clear from her attachment besides her unattainability?

Or, was that the greater truth he had been avoiding: her unattainability.

Her.

Barba's face that evening, alone in his office and deep into drink when Carisi stumbled in -- no, heartbreak wouldn't be too far a stretch.

He took a hard gulp of his beer then, finishing it off in an attempt to flush the thought from his mind. All that energy spent worrying about his principles, the difference between feeling and action; there was nothing to act on. Somehow the revelation made his involvement, all the wasted effort, seem so much worse in retrospect.

Humiliation just scratched the surface of the feeling.

Bitterly, he wondered what he must have looked like, what he looked like even now, always running at Barba's heels and picking up the scraps. How his colleagues even seemed to pick up on his hero worship, how the humor of it wove seamlessly into their ribbing.

Barba began to signal the bartender.

"Wait," Carisi reached out to him, his gesture a bit wild, misjudged, and catching in the hook of Barba's elbow where the skin of his forearm was barely exposed from its rolled sleeve. The touch caused a taut ripple of tension in its wake, both men pinned in place by it, made into statues.

He found himself unable to finish the sentence, unable to think beyond the warm current traveling through his fingers at the contact.

"Carisi?" Barba seemed genuinely confused, and though he didn't regard him as he spoke, he didn't shake off the gesture either.

"Sorry counselor, I uh--" he withdrew his hand quick. "I probably should get going."

"Oh?"

"Dodds. He'll--," he cleared his throat. "He'll want us in early. The warrants and all."

He stood from his stool, reaching to retrieve his wallet, but Barba waved a dismissive hand.

"Keep it, Carisi. The drinks were a congratulations. You earned a valuable lead."

The kindness, the congratulations, neutralized the sting of his discovery. He couldn't storm out on someone who'd just bought him a congratulatory round, who'd done nothing wrong really.

Someone whose only crime amounted to simply treating him as a colleague. It was his own investment that posed the problem.

And yet, how strangely humbling it was to be gracious in the moment.

"Thanks," he choked the word out, feeling his cheeks flush with it.

Carisi noticed Barba's phone light up again on the bar top, another notification, and Barba followed his gaze to it.

"Ah," his face fell slightly, the expression barely lingering before it was gone, replaced by a steeled determination. He slid the phone into his pocket without checking it.

"Everything okay counselor?"

"Everything's fine," he said, the response too quick to be entirely sincere. He fiddled with his own wallet, sliding a card across the bar top and signaling the bartender. "I've left some important files in my office, looks like I've got to go as well."

"You're going all the way back to your office? Now? Can't it wait?"

"I'm afraid it can't."

"You need them tonight? Someone texted you that?" He put an extra emphasis on the word "texted." It seemed an unlikely scenario even without his expressed aversion.

Annoyance washed over the Barba's face, "Is this an interrogation? Yes, Carisi, I need them tonight. Are you going to tap my phone next? Do I need to call a lawyer?"

His mouth got ahead of his brain, egged on in part by Barba's apparent need to be rid of him. "Let me come with you, then."

"I know the way to my own office."

"Sure you do, counselor, I'm just offering the company."

"I thought you needed to be up early?"

Even after the realization of his own misread of the situation, he was flooded with an overwhelming desire to be of help. To solve the problems at hand. To pick up the scraps, even knowing them now for what they were.

Or maybe, too, there was a bit of a desire to call Barba’s bluff, to root out the reality of this mysterious situation. Who was clearly texting him an invitation late in the evening? If he was persistent in his want to come along, Barba would at some point have to drop the "files" story, even if it was in service to another half-truth. A string of half-truths he could put together, could figure out.

Carisi continued, gesturing as he spoke. "It won't take long, right? I can just catch the subway from there. No problem."

Barba considered him, and prefaced with a long-suffering sigh, he said, "Alright, come along then."

He scribbled his signature on the receipt delivered by the bartender and began to gather his things.

“You should know,” Barba added, “I'm only conceding now before it begins to feel any more like a boy scout endeavoring to help an old man cross the road."

Carisi laughed at the image. It was far from the truth of it, in his mind at least, but better to play that close to his heart anyway.

"Those walk signal things, they count down real fast counselor. You could get caught in the middle of a busy street."

"Ha. Such a natural wit."

As they made their way through the bar, Carisi couldn't help adding with a note of sincerity: "It's just... I don't have this particular badge yet."

Crossing the threshold into the brisk evening, he could see that expression again, Barba struggling hard to swallow his own smile.


	12. Chapter 12

As their Lyft ride wound through the streets, drawing ever closer to the DA's office, Carisi could feel a mounting tension in the car despite their mutual silence. Barba hadn't checked his phone again since they left, but he seemed to be occupied by the weight of it in his pocket, fidgeting with it as he watched idly out the window.

Carisi figured at any moment he was due to hear the unraveling of the real situation at hand, or at least, a more believable lie than to spend the time and money to cross town for a few files he’d surely see in the morning.

Surprisingly, though, it never came.

They pulled up to the DA's office without further comment, dark now in the evening except for the few dotted lights of those still chained to their desks, and made their way inside. Barba checked in with one of the night guards at the front desk, a tired looking man with a thick salt-and-pepper moustache, admittedly more salt than pepper, who had the countenance of someone who wished to be elsewhere.

Carisi was especially curious as Barba asked the guard, Paul, if anyone had been by looking for him.

"No Mr. Barba," he said, his voice gruff. "Nobody, not at this hour anyway."

Barba seemed satisfied enough by this and began to lead them on toward the elevators. Carisi couldn't contain his own inquiring mind.

"You were expecting someone?"

Barba shot him a dark glance, "No."

He didn't dare to press further.

Once they'd arrived to his office, Barba jiggled the handle of the door, testing it. Satisfied, he used his keys to open it. Both rooms of the office were dark, and Barba seemed to appraise the silence before entering and switching on the outer office's light.

"Seriously, you're acting pretty weird counselor. What's going on?" To Carisi, the room looked normal, but Barba seemed to think otherwise.

"Nothing's going on, Carisi. I'm not overly fond of bursting into dark rooms at night, is that a crime?"

Carisi grinned. "Why didn't you tell me you wanted me to come along for protection?"

Barba continued to his office's door. "I'm not going to dignify that with a response. Besides, you asked to tag along, not the other way around."

They made their way into Barba's office proper, also dark and seemingly undisturbed as the lights were cast over it.

Barba walked to his desk and, placing his palms flat on the wood of it, took in the details of the room. Carisi wandered idly, still certain that there was an ulterior motive, one he was getting less sure he'd ever learn.

"So, you really weren't expecting anyone?" Carisi ventured as he took a seat on the couch, briefly reminded of that moment days ago, the scotch, _your faith_.

"I really wasn't expecting anyone." He began to shuffle some papers on his desk, gathering some folders and sliding them into his briefcase.

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just did."

Carisi smirked. "Okay. Look it's just with the... you know, you're being cagey about your phone and then suddenly needing to run across town to your office, and asking the guard if anyone's been here to see you this far after hours. Are you-- is it that you're involved with the lieutenant?"

"Excuse me?" Barba whipped up from his files to face Carisi.

"Sorry, I just-- what you said earlier..." He was babbling. He regretted the question before he could stop himself, but he was in too deep to drop it. "The lieutenant's thing... are you involved with her?"

"I heard what you said, detective," Barba's voice was low and measured as he spoke, deceptive in its calm. His eyes betrayed something explosive. "I wondered if _you_ heard yourself."

He found himself emboldened by the swipe, or maybe more by the fact that Barba, a man who carefully curated every word that came out of his mouth, hadn't directly said no.

"Isn't that it, though? Isn't that why she's out?"

Barba stalked around to the opposite side of his desk and leaned back against it. "Let me assure you that all slack I am cutting you right now is entirely due to knowing that you've had a... difficult week. I am going to strongly advise you to drop this line of questioning."

"Yeah, okay, I get it. Sorry I asked." It was among the truest things he'd said all night.

He stood from the couch and made for the door, stung particularly by the fact that Barba had tacked on his "difficult week," afforded him anything for it, as though it were a pitiable thing. As though it were being discussed by everyone but him.

"If you've got your files and all, I'm gonna head out."

His hand was at the doorknob when he heard Barba speak, softer. "For what it's worth, Carisi, that's not what I meant. Earlier. About Liv."

He stopped, staring hard at the blinds on the door until they lost their shape. "Really, s'fine. I'm sorry I asked."

Barba continued, "Look. If Liv were involved with someone, if that was a fact that I was party to, and it was someone close to this case... close in many ways, it would be a problem, correct?"

Carisi hitched a shoulder, "I guess."

"Don't be obtuse. You know that it would be. So, consider that to be the greater truth of it all."

He let go of the knob, turning back, his brow furrowed. "I don't get what you mean."

Barba kept his gaze fixed just over Carisi's shoulder as he spoke. "The greater truth that being involved... becoming involved with someone close to the case, close to my cases in general," he flicked his glance, barely meeting Carisi's eyes before looking away again. "That would be a problem. It would lead to problems like the one we're all dealing with now. Like her problem."

"Oh."

The unfurling of this admission sucked the breath from him until his ribs ached. His ears burned hot, heat prickling at the hairs on his neck. Neither had taken off their jackets since entering the office and the heat of his had become stifling.

Carisi willed himself to breathe, willed his muscles to remember how. He looked to his feet then, unwilling to chance the eye contact. He couldn't betray the thoughts batting around his brain like some manic pinball machine, the ball caught endlessly pinging between the bumpers of joy and guilt.

"Does that make sense, Carisi?"

It hit him then that no matter what he did, acknowledgement or not, it was all fleeting. As Barba told it, it was finished; the single moment was, in and of itself, a completed arc. A mutual interest, and the understanding that it couldn't go anywhere beyond.

Barba had showed his hand and, just as quick, withdrawn it from consideration.

Carisi, certainly not for the last time, cursed his own big mouth, his optimism, his heart on his sleeve, his remarkable ability to stumble right into things he hadn't planned for.

And most of all, he cursed his eternal inability to take an easy exit when it was gifted to him. He could have left it at that, all feeling and no action, a beginning and end with none of the heartache of the middle.

There, in the face of that very easy exit, the doorknob behind him, the subway waiting for him, his own bed waiting for him, he let his long legs close some of the distance between them.

He let his voice get out in front of him, "But that's what we do, right? All of us. We solve problems."

Barba laughed then, the sound of it like the release of something tightly coiled.

"That's a rather simplistic view, but alright. Some problems, we encounter them knowing already that we can't solve them. I thought you knew that by now."

"Yeah, well."

Carisi considered this for a beat, thinking of Nina in the interrogation room, her eyes flitting, panicked. The memory of the reverend standing in the aisle of St. Swithens asking if she was going to be alright. The ache as he flipped that memory over, thinking of what the man must be doing now, right now, this cold and wet evening.

He continued on in spite of it, tamping the memories down with his words: "I try though. That's the point. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't try."

Barba's expression was something entirely new to Carisi in that moment: a curiosity, almost tender. "An admirable stance."

"What? Come on counselor, you can't tell me you're any different."

It was Barba's turn to shrug. "With... experience, you get better at reading the problems. Predicting their outcomes."

"So that's it then," Carisi frowned, biting his bottom lip to avoid it becoming something of a pout.

"What do you propose instead?"

He looked to his feet once more. It was a question with no answer, or at least, one he couldn't articulate.

One that _he_ couldn't articulate, because to say it out loud would make the desire a reality. It would be an action.

He wasn't sure, in retrospect, who moved first then.

He felt the sudden surge in his legs, because actions be damned, but then it seemed he'd barely moved at all as Barba met him there, that patch of carpet, broad hands gripping the lapel of his jacket as he was dragged down into a kiss.

The first kiss was soft and quick, chaste, and almost a question in its application; nothing like what Carisi had imagined when he, truthfully, imagined this.

Truthfully, he'd imagined it often.

Still, this, the reality of it, sucked the very life out of him in its spontaneity. His muscles went rigid, his spine was a lightning rod coursing with the energy of it.

It wasn't fireworks exactly, the kiss, but more like the frenzy of anticipation in the moments before fireworks. It left him dazed, drunk off that thrilling anxiety that coiled tight and squeezed the throbs from his heart.

As Barba drew back to read his expression, Carisi chased it, that intoxicating nearness, the liquor and spice of his skin, the scrape of stubble barely there. Kisses came then like a conversation, questions and answers, a delicious back and forth as time seemed to melt between them, as Barba's fingers raked through his own hair and trailed sparks down his cheeks.

Barba pressed a final, slow kiss before he pulled away, appearing resolute even as Carisi attempted to tug him back in. He straightened Carisi's lapel from where he'd gripped it and took a firm step back.

"It's getting late," he said, his tone suddenly dismissive. Then, softer, he added with a glance to the door, "We... we really shouldn't."

Carisi could barely find his voice, ragged now and caught deep in his chest. Finding the words felt like spooning them out of syrup, out of the ache that welled deep within him at how time always seemed to slip from his fingers.

 "I uh-- yeah. Sure. I'm gonna... head out."

"Did you want a ride?"

"No," his response was abrupt as he turned on his heel. "Thank you, no."

He pushed through the doorway, himself now the man giving no backwards glance, no consideration to the scene he was leaving behind.

As he walked out of the building, replaying the moment of the kiss like scratching at a scab, that soothing sort of pain, he wondered what Barba had meant by offering a ride. Had he meant to offer him a second stop on his Lyft journey home, or would it have been an invitation to his own home and all that a late-night invitation entailed?

What assumptions had Barba made of his inclinations, and which of them were true enough? Would he have gone home with the man if asked, and if so, what happened next? It was a double-sided kind of thrill: edged in inexperience and anxiety, but more, a hungry sort of curiosity.

As he took the sidewalks in long strides, the certainty of the rest of his sleepless night settling into place, Carisi was reminded of an expression his father often used to describe him when he was growing up. It was something about how dogs chasing cars wouldn't know what to do with one if they caught it, and it always made him mad when he heard it. It was the kind of fatherly sentiment you lived your entire life to defy.

Yet, here he was bounding down the street, that ambitious, short-sighted dog.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wholehearted thanks, as always <3 Y'all who have commented/kudos'ed have been a motivational force, and I truly appreciate your kind words!
> 
> Additional thanks to RMJ who has beta'd a few chapters now :)

Carisi spent the night tossing on his own couch, lumpy as it was, getting a bit of sleep here and there amidst the churning of his mind. It wasn't exactly an intentional choice to stay on the couch, but maybe instinctual as it had always been a childhood comfort: sneaking down to watch late night television while the rest of the house slept.

Being the only boy among three sisters meant that for him, the competition for prime time television was nigh impossible to best. The quiet of dawn always afforded him that heady sense of being in charge of something.

He arose earlier than usual, well before sunrise, in part for the stiff joints -- a feeling far removed from the childhood memory of this practice, sleeping on couches -- and in part for the alarm he'd set himself. He worked at keeping his mind occupied with the events of the day: a quick shower, a bit of coffee, a glance at the morning headlines on his phone. The necessary motions kept him from straying back to the heartsick confusion of the night before.

A chilled mist greeted him on the street, a few degrees shy of ice. The fine droplets were illuminated in the swaths of streetlight that dotted the road as he went. He shielded his face with his high collar as he walked towards the subway, tapping at his watch often to make sure he was still on schedule. The subway platform was sparsely populated at this hour, a few other commuters in their suits and briefcases, their uniforms and messenger bags, addressing cellphones and newspapers in hand.

He fired off a quick text to Bella as he waited for the low rumble of the train, asking if she'd heard any official family plans for Easter later that month, knowing she was probably awake for a feeding and so he could expect a quick reply. The assumption proved true as she replied within moments, "same dinner as every year, why?"

"just wonderin," he wrote back.

"why u up so early?"

The distant whine of the train began to echo in the platform, tracks squealing with anticipation. The familiar sounds electrified his fellow passengers, all preparing to board as though the movements were something as instinctual as breathing.

Once nestled in an empty seat in the middle of a train car, he replied to her message: "trying out morning mass."

"oooh wow. didn't know you went during the week too. ma will looove that."

Bella was speaking from the experience of being the least likely of his sisters to go with any regularity, let alone twice a week. He didn't go that often either, not usually, just pretty regular on Sundays.

When he could get the time, he'd make a whole trip of it, catching the ferry to Staten Island and spending the day with his parents. Other times, when work and school kept him busy, there was a nice enough place he could blend into near his apartment.

He didn't like to talk about religion much with his sisters, whose experiences with being raised Catholic varied wildly. And it's not that he considered himself exceptionally religious either; he was, in fact, pretty far removed from the childhood notion of entering the priesthood. But there was a comfort in the unchanging practice of mass: the music, the patterns of speech, the prayers.

Lately, that comfort was lacking in a lot of other areas, and so he found himself on an early train bound for an early mass. In theory, if he'd timed it correctly, he'd have enough time to spare to grab something for the squad on the way so as to throw them off the scent of whatever he was working through. He wasn't particularly in the mood to be chatty and cordial, or worse to be made some punchline.

He wanted to solve the case at hand before another innocent was swept into its undertow on his watch.

\---

The service was shorter than he was used to, condensed for the weekday crowd; blessed in enough time to beat the morning rush. Carisi remained kneeling in his pew even after Father McDonnell bid the congregants to "go out into the world full of God's grace." He stayed even after most of the congregants did just that. He prayed for guidance and answers, for the warrants, for justice. Mostly, he prayed for the souls of Cara and Sister Nina, prayed for comfort to find the reverend at St. Swithens.

In theory, the sun had risen by the time that Carisi made it back out to the stone steps of the Cathedral, most congregants already dispersed to their various walks of life. From his vantage, however, the sun was nowhere to be seen, cloaked behind thick sheets of cloud. The morning mist still clung to the streets, the asphalt hissing with the passing of each car and bus.

Father McDonnell's voice echoed with him as he stood there watching the city bustle around him, fragments of prayer wrapping tight around his heart to create a warm buffer.

_Look gracious upon us, the lowly, bowed down by our conscience. May we always be lifted up by Your mercy._

Carisi felt moved by the service that morning, as though its design were a direct offering to him. He thought, in that way that you create signs out of the serendipity, that this church might be a good place for him to return to.

He gave a final glance to the ornate building, admiring its intricate brickwork, the mottled stained glass arching high above the street. The sidewalk below shattered that bit of serenity that the inner sanctum had offered him, all bathed in incense and the echo of hymn.

If he hadn't fully felt the shift, congregant to pedestrian, his phone buzzing in his pocket confirmed the changeover.

"Carisi," he said into the phone, scanning the street as he ventured towards a crosswalk.

"Where are you?" Rollins sounded impatient.

He began to fumble with his watch. "I'm not late, right?"

"No, you're not late. Everyone's early though. Even Fin." He heard a muffled sound in the background, likely a protest to that remark. "The warrants, remember? We got 'em."

"How could I forget?" He couldn't shake that double-edged memory: Judge Wheeler disgraced, Barba so softened.

“You almost here?"

"Almost." The bell above the doorway tinkled as he entered the nearby bakery, immediately struck by their arty decor, their well-dressed demographic. "I was getting you guys something on my way."

"Aw, you shouldn't have."

Carisi eyed the display case skeptically, "Yeah, well, don't thank me just yet." The pastries looked generic, waxy, as though they could have been unloaded directly from a plastic grocery store container. "Anyway, I'll be there as soon as I can."

After hanging up, Carisi settled on simply picking up coffees for everyone. He refused to be associated with subpar pastries.

\---

"Got coffees," he announced upon arriving, dipping first into the lieutenant's office to drop a coffee off for Dodds. The man was listening intently to someone on the other end of his desk phone, and put his hand over the receiver to mouth thanks.

Back in the bullpen, Fin received his cup graciously.

Rollins, on the other hand, had more to say. "Glad you finally made it. All that and no snacks today? No cannoli?" She gave the cup a once over as she took it from him, examining the logo. "Biscotti Latti? I've never been to this place before."

"It's not too far out," he said, not wanting to dwell on the exact location or how he came to pass it. "Looked interesting, thought I'd give it a try."

"And we didn't get any of those zambonis this time?" Fin asked.

Carisi could barely contain his correction. "Zeppole, come on! A zamboni is..." he trailed off, catching the amusement on Fin's face. Of course Fin knew what a zamboni was.

"Anyway," he recovered, "nah, nothing looked as good as my usual place, so just coffee it is." With a shrug, he added, "Takes a lotta effort to screw up plain coffee."

"That's true," Fin said.

Rollins cut in, "I always imagine you get stuff from some old Italian grandma's kitchen anyway. Biscotti Latti sounds too... I dunno, corporate."

"Right? Listen," he perched on Rollins' desk for a moment, leaning in conspiratorially. "It's this place near me, Zetticci's. You can't beat their stuff. The sons run it now, but yeah, their parents built the place way back when. Real small, old Italian recipes, the works."

"I bet they even know your name," Fin piped in.

Carisi nodded to Fin, proud. "Been going there long enough, so yeah, they do."

Rollins bit down a genuine smile. "Never change, Carisi."

He deposited his things at his own desk and booted up his computer. "So, anyway, we got the warrants?"

"Yeah," Rollins said, "Judge Wheeler was apparently very motivated by y'alls visit. We got everything we need to pull all the church financials."

Fin said, "We _can_ be very motivational."

Carisi added, "Especially when it's the last thing before clocking out, am I right Fin?"

"Hey, we've been pulling a lotta OT on this one. Can't a guy be excited to go home at a reasonable hour?"

"Nah, I hear ya."

Rollins spun lazily in her chair to face Carisi's desk, "How about you? Did you get home at a reasonable hour?"

"Huh?" He'd been idly checking his cellphone as they spoke, and it took a moment to understand the question as it was directed. "Me? Yeah, no. I mean yes. I did, yeah. Real reasonable. Went right home."

The further he dug himself into that babbling answer, the wider Rollins' grin got. "I just thought maybe there was a reason you were the last one in, you know, looking tired and bringing us coffees."

He felt that insistent heat at his cheeks, that childish feeling of shame. Anything he said could only dig himself further into a hole, and so he kept quiet. Let her believe what she wanted to, anyway. No one would likely guess what actually happened, at least not on their first try.

"So the warrants," Fin cut in, clearing his throat, making it apparent that he was not interested in dissecting the finer points of Carisi's evening, "I've been pulling stuff. Got nothing on Father Akintola so far."

"Nothing at all?" Carisi asked, logging into the database on his computer.

"Nada," Fin confirmed. "I'm looking at the Monsignor now. At least he seems to exist."

Rollins' disappointment at having to change gears was palpable. "Yeah. Alright. I started looking at Father Eugene. He also exists."

"So let me double check on Father Akintola then," Carisi offered. "We met him, Rollins and me. He definitely _exists_."

"Yeah, well, see if I missed something then," Fin said. "I couldn't find a damn thing on the guy."

"I'm on it."

At least with this assignment at hand they were wholly busy. He could be completely occupied by it, the search, and safely shut down the parts of his brain unnecessary to the task at hand, the parts where anxiety bloomed.

They chipped away at it for a bit, the station alive with the clacking of keyboards, the scratching of note-taking, distant phones ringing, the hum of the general precinct traffic.

Fin was the first to break their concentration, tossing out an idea to the room. "The Monsignor doesn't have much of anything going on. Not even a credit card. That's weird, right?"

"Some people don't believe in credit cards," Carisi replied, "or maintaining debts. I mean, that seems like it might just fit with a priest's lifestyle."

Rollins added, "Father Eugene's about the same, no credit cards, nothing weird yet."

"And I've still got no Father Akintola at all," Carisi said, resigned. "If that's even who that guy was."

"Who do you think he was, a hit man?" Fin asked.

Carisi spun his chair to face them. "All I know is, that guy was definitely not a priest."

"Do we really know that though?" Rollins asked.

Carisi replied, "I mean, I really doubt he was."

"I'm just saying," she turned back to her computer, scrolling through as she spoke, "he could be a priest and a bad guy."

"Yeah, Rollins, I get that. I know there are bad priests. I guess I've been lucky enough to only know good ones.”

She hummed noncommittally, appearing to be caught up in whatever was on her screen.

He continued, “I got a couple cousins who are priests, they're good guys. They’re not all bad.”

When no one responded, he wondered who he was trying more to convince.

As he went back to his search, he was reminded of Barba's assurance, almost a toast in its nature.

_You'll get through with your faith intact._

\---

By the time Dodds had finished his phone call and came to debrief, not much had changed. Carisi still hadn't found any trace of Akintola, and Fin seemed convinced that the Monsignor was too clean to be entirely innocent.

Rollins, however, had found something -- and if she'd found it before that moment, she hadn't given any indication. The PDF she had on her screen showed that Father Eugene was maintaining two apartment residences, one in Brooklyn costing more than his monthly salary to rent, let alone the second.

"This might be a party location," Dodds said, leaning over her shoulder to assess the documents. "Rollins, you keep digging into this. Fin, Carisi?"

"To Brooklyn, I guess." Carisi looked to Fin, who gave him a bit of wry smile in return.

"How 'bout I drive?"

"I don't know why you all give me crap about driving," Carisi said, throwing his hands up, half joking as he retreated to gather his things. Truthfully, he felt he was a fine driver, and that the ribbing came with the new guy territory. Admittedly he was, at this point, not new, and definitely not the newest, but the jokes remained.

Dodds retreated back to the lieutenant's office, and Carisi thought about how that man had entirely avoided the new guy treatment. His father likely had a lot to do with that. Turning back, jacket in hand, Carisi caught Rollins and Fin exchanging a pointed look. Fin, realizing they'd been seen, recovered quickly.

"Nah man, you're a good driver! I just thought you looked like you could use a break." He was not entirely convincing in his delivery.

Carisi gave a smirk, began to prepare a spirited defense, but instead found the rare good sense to bite his tongue. For once in his life, he thought, he should really just take the graceful exit afforded to him.


	14. Chapter 14

"It was like a-- like a damn dungeon in there or something."

Carisi gestured wildly as he spoke to Dodds and Rollins, his rapt audience in the lieutenant's office. He couldn't find the right spot to stand as he described the scene, moving in tight circles from the doorway to the chairs in front of the desk.

"He's got all kinds of, you know, harnesses and whatever, _mannequins_ , and then he's got these paintings on the walls like something out of a church. Oh, and then he's got this one dressed up as a live-in cowboy." He walked to the two-way mirror, gesturing to a nervous Lance Woodstone hunched over his elbows. "Or, as Lance here describes it, personal trainer. Pilates. Yeah, come on. He was in a cowboy suit."

"Wow." Dodds seemed to want to say more, but drew his lips tight instead.

Rollins too was caught somewhat speechless. "Not what I expected," she mumbled.

Carisi continued, “The real kicker? He’s got his name on the place. Right on the buzzer. E. O’Hannigan. Like he doesn’t even care if anyone knows.”

Dodds raked a hand through his hair. "Well, you and Fin should take a run at Lance. See if he knows where Eugene gets the money to keep him in residence, or at least how long he's been his cowboy for hire. We’ll run background and loop Barba in on this... discovery."

"Sounds good, Sarge." Carisi said, hoping his expression hadn't betrayed the hitch in his stomach at Barba's name.

A run in with the ADA, whatever that might entail now in the wake of it all, would only serve to make this day worse.

\---

Fin and Carisi had only gotten through a few preliminary questions before Lance lawyered up. The request was rather indirect: it was a girlfriend he'd asked to call, who he then mentioned was also a lawyer. That counted as lawyering up, and so in accordance with protocol, Fin and Carisi left the interrogation room, their shared glance speaking volumes.

Carisi couldn't figure it out. A lawyer, dating the man who they just picked up in a priest’s sex dungeon, and what's more, dressed up like he was preparing for a role in a low budget porno.

Sure. Okay. Why not.

He wondered how the case had gotten so much darker, more complex, in the span of one single morning. At this rate, who knew what the rest of the shift had in store for them.

"Sarge," Fin cut directly into the lieutenant's office and Carisi felt obligated to follow, to assist in the debrief.

Inside, Rollins was perched on Dodds' desk considering some notes. Barba sat in a chair by her legs, facing the two-sided mirror, having apparently deemed the situation worthy enough to witness in person.

Once again, he looked completely refreshed in the new day, no trace of the previous evening in his affect as he regarded their entrance coolly. The vision of him so put together, so present in this moment, it unnerved Carisi.

He struggled to maintain a professional stature, shifting his weight back and forth between his feet, trying to find some casual position. The night before was playing over his own face, he knew it, and it would only be a matter of time before everyone saw it for what it was.

"Counselor," Fin greeted him with a gesture to the mirror, the view it afforded. "You catch all that?"

Barba's mouth twitched at the corners. "A live-in personal trainer who _chips in_."

"Yeah, he chips in alright," Rollins said, "I was just tellin' Barba, our cowboy in there spends over $1500 a month on booze and assorted items from the Pirate Booty Treasure Chest website."

"Oh yeah?" Fin said, clearly amused by the revelation. "Well, I think me and Carisi got a good look at half of the Pirate Booty inventory this morning then. That place is loaded with stuff."

Barba flicked his glance their way with that remark, lingering on Carisi. His expression was dark, calculating, but bore no underlying apology, and for better or worse, no embarrassment at the sight of him.

Still, Carisi felt a violent heat prickle at his neck as he hovered in the doorway, avoiding the eye contact as best he could and trying to think of a genuine excuse to move on. Discussing a priest's private proclivities, his sex toy collection and its origins, with his own colleagues, let alone the ADA -- it was truly one of the last places he wanted to be at that moment.

So of course, as though on cue, Rollins attempted to draw him into the conversation. "So Carisi, was it all pirate themed stuff? Any sexy peg legs?"

"Huh?" It took a moment for the synapses to connect, and when they did, his cheeks burned hotter to spite him. "Nah, uh, I think the name's just a... euphemism."

Rollins gave him a satisfied smirk, and beside her, Barba seemed suddenly struck by the need to assess some papers on the desk.

Dodds, either oblivious to the moment or ignoring it, nodded toward the mirror, "And he's lawyered up?"

"He says it's his girlfriend," Fin said, appearing to relish in the opportunity to describe this exact situation. "Apparently the priest's boyfriend has a _girlfriend_ , and she's a lawyer."

"A priest, a cowboy, and a lawyer," Barba mused, running his hand along his jaw, "all we need is a bar and a bit of irony and we've got the makings of a good joke."

This earned a murmured chuckle from the group, even Carisi who, despite his mounting embarrassment, did still appreciate seeing Barba's expression in the wake of his own jokes, that fervent battle against proud amusement.

"So what are we gonna do with him?" Fin asked.

"He's got an outstanding DUI," Dodds replied, tapping a manila folder on his desk.

"Which is not worth my time," Barba finished the sentence. "Not just that, at least. Let's see what the lawyer has to say about it and go from there."

"He says she's on her way," Carisi offered. "I thought I might go give St. Fabiola's another call while we wait, see if anyone has been freed up this morning for a chat."

"Good idea," Dodds said, "Fin, do you want to try calling on the Bishop again?"

"I'm on it, Sarge."

As they exited, Carisi glanced back furtively, watching as Rollins stayed behind with Barba. He felt hyper focused on the man's presence, and it didn't seem to be a sentiment shared. Barba had paid him such little attention in the room, and none further in his departure.

Back at his desk, he found himself slipping into the swell in his heart, the memory of being pulled inward by his lapel, the heat of it all. No sooner than he allowed himself this reprieve did guilt flood over those images like a tidal surge.

He couldn't parse out whether it was the guilt of allowing his mind to slip from the importance of case at hand, or the guilt inherent in the wanting.

\---

Carisi had been on hold with Saint Fabiola's for ten minutes at least, one of the Sisters assuring him that she would locate Father Eugene, when a woman that he could only assume was Lance's lawyer arrived to the station in a cloud of floral perfume. She strode into the lieutenant's office, heels clacking against the linoleum, and put on what Carisi thought was a passable one-woman show. Her shock and indignation was audible throughout half the station.

When Dodds brought her and Barba in to speak with Lance, Rollins was left on her own, and she chose to wander over to Carisi's desk. She gestured to his phone, a question, and as he entered what had to be close to the twentieth minute on hold, he hung it up in disgust.

"Still nothin'," he said. "On hold for twenty minutes as they were looking for Father Eugene. I'm guessing the Sister was instructed to keep me on ice."

"They're really not talking," Rollins gave a sigh. "They gotta know that it just makes 'em look worse. Anyway, though, turns out Father Eugene has been caught before with this cowboy. His girlfriend, the lawyer, who is married by the way..." she trailed off for effect.

Carisi raised his brows. "This just keeps getting weirder."

"Right? Well, she says she emailed the Monsignor about the whole affair two years ago trying to get it shut down."

"Two years ago? So, the Monsignor knew the whole time."

"Yep! She says the funds for the love nest were being skimmed from the school. Oh God, Carisi, you gotta see what the lawyer showed us, the pictures she had. Dodds has 'em on his phone, he'll be out in a sec. Apparently Father Eugene's a bit of an exhibitionist."

The word exhibitionist ran its icy fingers down his spine. He was very sure in that moment that he did not want to see what the cowboy's lawyer had showed them.

Just then, the door to the interrogation room burst open and the lawyer strode out, dragging Lance behind her like a sullen toddler.

"We'll be in touch," Barba said from the doorway, which earned him a high-pitched huff from the lawyer.

Rollins nudged Carisi as they watched her pass, "Guess what kind of lawyer she is. Guess."

Carisi felt engulfed in the wave of floral scent, unable to surface from it to catch a clean breath. "Ambulance chaser?"

"Real estate! A broker. You should have seen the look on Barba's face when she dropped that. I think he might have hurt himself biting his tongue."

She nodded towards Barba, who was chatting with Dodds just outside the interrogation room. True, he did look pretty smug. It was hard for Carisi to keep looking at him without remembering his face as it looked inches away, and so he fiddled with the pens on his desk.

Dodds left for the lieutenant's office and, despite Carisi’s fervent wish for anything but, Barba strolled closer, catching Rollins’ attention.

"Alright counselor," Rollins called out, her eyes twinkling with mirth, clearly reveling the absurdity of it all. "Tell us. How was the real estate lawyer?"

"Capable," he replied, amused. "Enough to take her client home, at least. Though she certainly couldn't hold a candle to our _Fordham_ insights."

"Very funny," Carisi smirked, half-hearted, the bite of the remark sinking in slow and catching him slightly off guard. There would be no mention of last night, sure, he expected that. But what's more, the kindness apparently existed in some sort of vacuum.

Today they were back at square one -- or before square one, even. Back when the insults were more pointed, aimed directly at the core of him.

Carisi continued, "Glad to know my insights rank just slightly above... _her_... in your professional opinion." It came out a bit sharper than he'd intended, a fact that did not seem to be lost on any of them.

Barba looked particularly ruffled, as though he hadn't expected any reply, let alone that one. Rollins, too, seemed to be trying to work out what she'd started by calling him over.

Carisi gestured toward the break room, "If you guys'll excuse me, I'm gonna go grab a snack."

As he stood to make his exit, he was interrupted by the sound of the lieutenant's door clicking shut, Dodds framed in the doorway and dressed to leave. Carisi stopped to listen as he announced his departure.

"I'll be back in a bit," Dodds said. "Hang tight -- keep trying to catch one of these guys in a conversation, okay?"

There was a murmur of agreement across the squad room.

"Where's he off to?" Barba wondered aloud as they watched Dodds leave, phone in hand.

Rollins and Carisi shared a glance then. They'd begun to share their suspicions about his frequent disappearances, how they all seemed to bring him back to the station with new ideas, new angles to pursue. They didn't want to articulate the thought -- that he was meeting with the lieutenant, updating her on the case -- in part because they didn't want to get either of them in trouble, in part because they were glad to still have her guidance.

"Who knows," Rollins said, not exactly a lie.

"Maybe to see his father," Carisi added, shrugging.

"Hm," Barba eyed the both of them, uneasy. "Well. If he comes back with any bright new ideas... use good sense in their application."

Carisi mumbled something noncommittal, finding this to be his perfect chance to exit the conversation for the privacy of the break room.

\---

Nothing particularly looked appetizing as he scanned the contents of the vending machine. Truthfully, he knew the offerings by heart, so his pointed attention paid to the machine was a careful facade as he worked through the events that had brought him to this moment.

It felt like a different day entirely, and not just hours ago, that he'd sat in a far pew and listened to Father McDonnell intone from the pulpit. He thought of the overwhelmingly sweet smell of the bakery, and the memory of it swirled into that floral cloud that trailed Lance's lawyer as she waltzed through the squad room.

Sensing a presence in the doorway then, and fully expecting it to be Rollins looking for an explanation for his departure, his attitude, he turned to give her a passable explanation. Instead, he was startled to find that it was Barba who had followed him, who was watching him now, his coat in hand.

Carisi turned back to the machine, staring intently at a Milky-Way bar, the glowing B32 beneath it, willing the moment to pass without further insult to his character.

"I wanted to apologize," Barba began.

Carisi cut in, his gaze steadily on that silver wrapper, "You've been doing that a lot lately."

He pressed the numbers, as though he didn't know the Milky Way would be $1.75, as though he was honestly considering the purchase.

"Yes, well. Regardless, I am sorry."

Carisi rubbed at the back of his neck and spared another cautious glance to Barba, who looked surprisingly contrite in his admission.

Barba took a few steps into the room, glancing around to be sure of their relative privacy before continuing. "I acted unprofessionally. Last night. A few drinks, a stressful evening... I apologize."

He sighed. It was hard to stay mad with his senses so overwhelmed by every other feeling he held onto. "Yeah. I guess you did warn me about that, ah, suicidal streak?"

"Yes," Barba said curiously, as though it was not the answer he expected. "I did say that."

Carisi thought he would be relieved, but he found himself more stung by the apology than the thousandth crack about his night school efforts.

It wasn't the phrasing, the delivery, no, but the twisted root of it. That the summation of months of internal conflict, a moment that took more bravery and vulnerability than most, added up to nothing more than a drunken mistake to the other man. A miscalculation. Something to be sorry for.

That problem-solver in him, his innate need to fix things, it won out over his more practical brain, his sense of professionalism. He turned to Barba, energized. "Let me walk you out, counselor."

"I thought you were getting a snack?" Barba nodded to the machine as he slid on his jacket.

"I'm not much on the vending machine stuff," he shrugged. "I just excused myself before I had to hear the greatest hits on my Fordham education."

"Touché. Although, I wouldn't add that one to my greatest hits," he adjusted his collar with a smirk, "It was a shot in the dark, really."

"It was a bit contrived," Carisi agreed. "Definitely not your best."

They walked the hallway as they had so often, their pattern instinctual: Carisi getting the elevator buttons, holding the door.

Inside the elevator, his nerve began to falter a bit. He wasn't exactly sure what to say -- there wasn't much he felt comfortable admitting within the precinct, and the relative privacy afforded by the elevator was brief.

He settled on the truth, or at least a general shade of it. "I... wish that you weren't sorry."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Barba rocked on his heels, but provided no further response. His expression bore no indication of his thoughts.

As the door opened to the ground floor, they made their way through the sparse group that had gathered nearby, waiting for the car to arrive. They continued in silence through the glassy lobby and out onto the street where the sun still hid in the clouds, and traces of morning rain had seemed to dry with the approach of afternoon.

"Let's put it this way," Barba said when they'd cleared a fair distance, stopping to face him. "I am... apologetic, perhaps. Sorry? No. Not entirely."

"Oh." Carisi said, slightly confused by the phrasing. As he turned it over, unraveled the sentiment, a smile broke. "Okay, I think I can live with that."

"Good." Barba's smile was more reserved, proud. "So, then, you'll let me know what Dodds finds on his walkabout, won't you?"

"Yeah, sure counselor. Although," he rubbed at his chin, emboldened by the unexpected warmth of the moment, "now I'm starting to think you're just using me for my intel."

Barba scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Nah, I get it counselor." He raked a hand through his hair, shifting his weight and addressing a point in the distance as he spoke, "Here I thought it was just my roguish good looks."

Carisi gave a glance back to see how the comment had landed, and wasn't surprised to find Barba with his eyes to the heavens, his entire body dripping with sarcasm and bite.

"If I can make it around your inflated ego, detective, I'll be going now." He reached to move Carisi aside, like parting curtains, though giving a slight squeeze in the process.

"Goodbye," he said as he passed. "Keep in touch."

"See ya, counselor."

As he watched the man leave, he was overwhelmed by the realization of his heart, how hard it railed against his ribs. He found he’d been holding a breath so deep that he had to work to let it loose.

Walking back to the building, he marveled at the invigoration he felt in the wake of their brief conversation. Such a small moment, and yet, how different the world seemed beyond it.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always from the bottom of my heart for all of your kind words as I continue this! 
> 
> Special thanks to RMJ for sage guidance and excellent editing.

Carisi favored the stairs on his way back to the squad room, hoping to burn off the nervous energy that coursed through him, or maybe more to mask his flush. Back in the bullpen, only slightly breathless, he found Rollins and Fin chatting idly at their desks amidst the humming station traffic.

"He sure seemed feisty today," she called out to Carisi as he made his way to his desk. "Been awhile since I heard him drag out the law school jokes."

Carisi shrugged. It wasn't untrue. 

Rollins spun her chair to face his desk, "Hey, don't let him get to you with that stuff, okay?"

It wasn't what he'd expected her to say, in fact he'd have sooner bet on her tacking on a punchline, and so he didn't quite know how to reply. "Yeah, I won't."

"Say, you wanna blow off studying one of these nights and come watch terrible television with Jesse? Get your mind off of stuff? She hasn't seen you in weeks."

"What, she told you she misses me?"

"In so many words."

It was tempting. Truthfully he had been missing this, the relief he found in their burgeoning friendship. Rollins hadn't seemed in a particularly friendly mood lately, and he'd counted their relationship among the things this case had been casting its shadow over.

As he'd gotten to know her over his time in Manhattan, Rollins reminded him a lot of his sisters: that headstrong stubbornness, a fierce loyalty not easily won. The Carisi women had those traits in spades. But the added bonus was that with her, he could be sure that their conversations would never be cherry-picked and relayed to his mother for dramatic effect, or worse, some sort of leverage. That was a significant pitfall to chatting candidly with his sisters: the eventual phone call from his ma with her unsolicited advice on whatever they'd told her.

"Yeah," he concluded finally, "sure, why not." 

"Why not! Yeah, I'll tell Jesse you didn't have anything better going on."

"Come on," he spread his palms, "you know what I meant."

"No Carisi, it's cool, we get that you're a busy guy. For that though," she pointed her pen at him, "you're in charge of dinner."

"Oh yeah? As opposed to when?" He couldn't help himself. She’d always found a reason for him to bring the food, and yet she had never once phrased it as a request.

"You're funny. You wanna do tonight? Seems like we probably won't go too late at this rate."

He considered it, but after getting up so early, after all the twists of the day, all he wanted was a quiet night at home. "Nah, tonight's not great. Maybe tomorrow, if we're not tied up with this stuff?"

"That's one way to put it," Rollins remarked as she flipped through some papers on her desk.

He wrinkled his nose. "If we're not _busy_." 

As the afternoon wore on, he found it difficult to entirely focus on the work at hand. The phone calls still went unanswered, and the paperwork that had piled up on his desk was maddening in its monotony. He spent a lot of that afternoon wishing for the day to pick-up, for something else to happen, and yet when Dodds called late in the afternoon to outline their next moves, the urgency at hand, Carisi would have given anything to spend the rest of the day filling out forms instead.

\---

Carisi stood at the mirror, watching darkly as Father Eugene steepled his fingers in the interrogation room, folding and unfolding them, lost somewhere in thought. He and Fin had delivered the man fresh from his evening rendezvous with Cowboy Lance, and Dodds and Rollins had been preparing the evidence they had in order to question him.

He seemed such a small man now, but they always looked smaller from this angle. Carisi studied the detail of the priest, his inscrutable expression, his collar slightly loosed as though he'd found it a hindrance. He wanted there to be some sort of tell about the man, some easily-defined trait that separated Eugene from the good ones, but he couldn't find it. Eugene looked like any of them ever did: pious, stately.

Carisi barely noticed then as Barba flanked him at the mirror. The man's presence, usually such a vibrant thing demanding his awareness, it bore little distraction from the scene at hand. He continued drilling his gaze into the man's polished veneer, willing it to crack. He envisioned all those dark secrets pouring out from his unwound collar.

"I see we've found the ever elusive Father Eugene," Barba said, breaking Carisi's contemplative silence.

He flicked his gaze to Barba briefly before returning to the interrogation scene. "Hey. Yeah. The DUI thing worked. Lance had no problem giving up his boyfriend for an easy deal on that." He thought of Lance then, sullen as a teenager, shutting the door behind them as they escorted Father Eugene out of the loft. He wondered what the cowboy with no chattel, the master with no servant, was doing now.

Barba clicked his tongue, bringing Carisi back to the moment. "Another wrangler taken down by the drink. Or I guess it was the priest's downfall, ultimately."

"Yeah well, I dunno. He seems to be maintaining his innocence throughout. Says the stuff in the lawyer's emails is _in his past_. It's just some big coincidence that we found him on all fours tonight."

Barba grimaced. "That's certainly an image I could have done without."

"Yeah, try bein' there," he replied. Father Eugene hadn't even bothered to take off his collar before he sank into his role as servant, slave really, eager to receive all that was coming to him. Carisi felt particularly haunted by that image, rubbing at his eyes then to rid himself of the fresh memory.

He caught Barba appraising him, the heat of his gaze, his expression bathed in that rare shade of concern. He was struck by how recently they'd stood here just the same, watching Sister Nina's interrogation. How they'd been so quick to discredit her paranoia that day, laughing at the absurdity of a nun at a sex party full of judges and DAs. Now he knew it for the act of bravery it was. It was humbling, sickening really, to think of how entirely wrong he'd been at so many junctures in this case.

"The girls attended his school," Barba's voice was suddenly tight. "He has an unexplained cash flow, and yet he still blames Tucker. He and the monsignor are in on this up to their eyeballs."

Carisi nodded to the mirror, "Well yeah him, sure, but the Monsignor?"

"Carisi, look." Barba drew him away from the mirror gently. "The Monsignor came to me, unsolicited, to dirty Tucker up. He then handed you, the good Catholic, a photocopy of a handwritten letter--"

"Which, obviously, anybody could have backdated and claimed they mailed. I mean, I knew that was a possibility, but..." The next words caught thick in his throat, because of course anybody could have faked a handwritten letter, and why didn't he give that a second thought? It twisted at his stomach, how entirely wrong he continued to be.

He could barely pay attention to their conversation for all the thoughts that flooded him despite Barba's assurances. Or maybe he was distracted because of those assurances -- it was odd to be receiving this softness from Barba, a man who'd hours earlier endeavored to cut him down. Still, he kept retracing his steps to all the forks in the road where he could have let his faith in those men fall to the wayside -- moments where he could have been a detective first, a good Catholic second.

"We'll meet with the Monsignor in the morning. I'll have Carmen arrange it. For now," Barba touched his shoulder lightly, bringing his voice back into focus, "Carisi, don't end your night on this note."

"Yeah," he trailed off, distracted then by Dodds and Rollins exiting the interrogation room, deep in discussion. "I won't, counselor."

"What I meant... if you'd like to... prepare for the meeting with the Monsignor, I hadn't made dinner plans. Thanks to you."

"Thanks to me?" He cut his gaze sharply back to Barba, but any sense of irritation at the claim was immediately extinguished by the sight of the man's sly smile.

"Yes," he pulled his phone from his pocket and began to occupy himself as he spoke. "Well, I've been back and forth here so many times today thanks to your many finds, I haven't had time to plan a proper meal."

"So sorry for the inconvenience," he sighed, caught halfway between the lightness of the banter and the depth of his own internal monologue.

"Apology accepted. The offer stands. I'll be preparing for the meeting over dinner at home, you are welcome to join me."

He watched Barba fiddling with his phone, and thought of what his night was shaping up to be otherwise. Lonely, sleepless, the looping familiar television theme songs. He almost wished he had an easy excuse, wished he had taken Rollins up on her earlier invitation because the truth of it was he wanted to go, desperately, to explore this softness, and it was the acuteness of that wanting that terrified him.

"If you're busy though..." Barba mused, still regarding his phone in his hands.

"Nah, just... let me talk to the Sarge. See what the plan is for Father Eugene and all."

"Certainly." Barba bid Carisi on his way, helping himself to a seat in the chair at his desk while he waited. Walking towards the lieutenant's office, he spared a shy glance back, overcome by a wave of warmth at the sight of Barba fiddling with his own things, the few odds and ends he kept on his desk.


	16. Chapter 16

Barba's apartment was not entirely what Carisi had expected as he crossed the threshold. It was elegant, sure, and tastefully decorated: art instead of posters, curtains that matched the furniture, plush rugs. It spoke of someone who lived not only comfortably, but someone who was proud of that comfort. But, it was also somewhat smaller a place than he'd imagined it would be. Everything about Barba was, in his mind, larger than life, and somehow this average-sized apartment he inhabited seemed in diametric opposition to everything that defined the man.

"I'm just going to put a couple things away," Barba called as he headed into what Carisi thought must be his bedroom. "Make yourself comfortable."

Carisi wandered idly toward the living space in his absence, dropping his jacket to the couch, then hovering toward the bookshelves that lined the wall, looking for any overlap of interests. His eyes wandered to other details too: how the dust had settled on shelves around the tomes of poetry and law theory, books long untouched it seemed; how the small dining table tucked in a far corner seemed to function only as a home for piles of paperwork; how it seemed that personal effects were few and far between.

He came across a few small knick-knacks on one of the shelves -- a small clay bowl with a few shells in it beside a square photo frame. It was a picture of Barba, much younger and dressed more casually than usual, sandwiched there between two older women. The family resemblance between the three of them was striking, and the apparent importance of whole scene captured in its small frame overwhelmed him with fondness.

As he took in the whole of the place, it seemed that there were only a few areas that were well trafficked: the couch and coffee table, the small island space that peeked through from the kitchen, that table full of paperwork. He was surprised to find that while Barba was neat, he was not immaculate. For a man so carefully put together in his work life, never a button out of place, this rare glimpse at a bit of disorder in his life was oddly satisfying.

"So a couple places deliver nearby," Barba emerged from the bedroom, having lost the jacket and waistcoat of his suit, his tie too, leaving only the checked shirt intact, its sleeves rolled tight to his elbows. "Thai, some sort of generic burger type of place, an Indian place that's not really worth mentioning anymore...new owners."

He leaned in the bedroom doorway, and Carisi could feel the weight of his gaze as he pointedly inspected the spines on the bookshelves.

"S'all good to me. You probably know what's worth ordering better than I do."

"Fair point. Thai it is." Barba padded across the apartment toward the kitchen and Carisi broke from the bookshelves to follow.

As Barba fished through a pile of menus in a drawer, Carisi took in the clean kitchen features. It seemed to be rarely used. Every utensil was neatly housed and there was nary a stain on the stove. His mind lurched a bit, wanting to overlay that moment in Father Eugene's kitchenette hours before, the domestic details he'd cataloged among the man’s collection of leather and steel. He jerked his head to lose the image quick.

"Here I thought I was getting a home-cooked meal," he said, half to himself as he leaned back against the cool refrigerator, grateful for the reprieve from the shy heat emanating from his collar.

"You came to the wrong kitchen if that was your goal," Barba slapped a single menu down on the counter top. "Here you go. Thai Villa. I already know what I'll get, so let me know what you want."

"I'm gonna assume this place was your first choice all along," Carisi said, leafing through the menu. Truthfully, he didn't have a wealth of experience when it came to Thai food. He'd had it a few times, but not enough to remember anything he particularly enjoyed.

"You know what they say about assumptions." A smile flickered over Barba's lips, "But you're right."

"What do you usually get?" Carisi skimmed the names of the dishes. Thankfully, they all seemed pretty self-explanatory, and came with vivid descriptions.

"I'm partial to the pad see-ew with crispy duck." As he skimmed the menu, Carisi again felt the heft of Barba's gaze upon him, and the awareness of it kept him from fully comprehending the words he was reading. He read over the phrase _peanut wrapped with egg net_ at least ten times, and not once did the words make sense. 

After a moment had passed, Barba added, "The pad thai is always a safe choice if you're... not sure what to get. Sweet, a bit spicy, can't go wrong."

"Yeah," Carisi slapped the paper menu shut, quite sure he wouldn't be able to pick something on his own. "That sounds good. One of those."

He could see the amusement clear on Barba's face and was pretty sure his inexperience was transparent. Ah well, he thought to himself as he replaced the menu in its drawer, there were worse things to be known for.

Once Barba had placed the order on his phone, they retreated to his couch, oversized enough to allow each a safe distance from the other as they sat. Carisi couldn't tell if either of them had been intentional in maintaining the space, but even with the distance he felt an overwhelming awareness of it all: that he was here, this evening, on Barba's couch, in his home, barely a day removed from that unexpected moment in his office. And what's more, that they were still amidst the fog of this case, a web that kept growing exponentially.

"Are you listening?"

He suddenly realized that in all his reverie, he'd tuned out Barba's attempts at conversation.

"Sorry, what?"

Barba had drawn his legs up beneath him on the couch, leaning back in the crook of the couch between the arm and back. "I was just talking about tomorrow morning's meeting, but don't let me bother you with banalities." 

It was impossible to concentrate on anything beyond how different he looked in this moment, so casual, entirely unwound and at ease in his own home. Smiling too, despite the sharp edge of the words.

"Jeez, sorry. It really has been a long day." He ran a hand through his hair as he leaned back into the give of the couch, realizing then that his hair felt slightly fluffy, its daily fight against its gel just about won for the evening.

"I suppose it has been. You practically moved into Father Eugene's apartment."

He gave a theatrical shudder. "Don't remind me."

Barba seemed to weigh his thoughts for a moment. "A means to an end. You got through it, and now we have what we need: the leverage to dig further."

"Yeah. You're right. Really, it shouldn't get to me this much. I've been in way worse situations, more dangerous by far. And let's be honest, I probably have 'em ahead of me too--"

"So? The existence of worse situations doesn't invalidate this one."

"I just..." he trailed off into a deep sigh. Something about the couch, the late hour, his weariness, he felt that tight coil in his chest begin to unwind itself. "Fin and Rollins gave me shit this whole time 'cause I kept cutting the priests slack. I knew I was cutting 'em slack and I did it anyway, ‘cause they're priests. And the Monsignor... to think he could see that... see that about me, my faith, and make me as an easy mark--"

"You're not an easy mark," Barba cut in, rearranging his legs tighter beneath him. "If you think his actions mean he took you for a fool, then he took me for one too. And we both know that I am neither a fool nor an easy mark, so."

Carisi gave a rueful chuckle. "Sure, when you put it that way."

"Carisi, you're a...principled person. You put your faith in people who purport to be the same as you, to have the same values as you, that's human nature. It's how you were raised. Finding out that those people are not the same? That their values only extend so far?" He twitched a shoulder. "Trust me, it says more about them than you that your faith was misplaced."

He let out a deep sigh, one that seemed to relax muscles he didn't know he had.

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he said.

"Of course I am. So tomorrow, when the Monsignor comes around, you can't approach it like this. You have to let go of--"

He was interrupted then by a sharp knock on the door, animated into motion by it. Carisi watched as he greeted the delivery boy in the doorway, doling out a stack of bills and relieving him of the large paper bag he held.

Carisi straightened himself and scooted inward toward the center of the couch, in part for a better reach to the coffee table where Barba came to drop the bag. Another part of him wanted to try for nearness now, wanted to see if Barba too would close the distance.

Barba busied himself in the kitchen retrieving plates and napkins, and when he brought them back to the table, he felt a blossoming thrill as the man did sit closer, their knees bumping comfortably together. Carisi pulled a plastic container from the bag and inspected it, realizing he was not entirely sure what he was looking for.

"That would be mine," Barba took the container from him, their fingers brushing in the exchange. "Yours will be the other large one in the bag."

"I knew that," he said brightly. "Seein' if you knew."

"I'm sure."

At the bottom of the bag were a pair of wooden chopsticks in their paper wrapping. Sparing a glance to Barba, he saw the man deftly filling his plate from the container with his own chopsticks, navigating the knot of noodles effortlessly. Of course.

It wasn't that he hadn't used chopsticks before -- he had. A couple times. It was never pretty.

"You, ah-- hey, where do you keep your forks?"

Barba eyed him. "With the rest of my utensils, generally. What, no chopsticks for you?"

"I um-- I'm not so good with 'em."

"Did you never learn?" Barba scooped a tangle of noodles into his mouth as if to demonstrate the effortlessness.

"It wasn't part of the formal Catholic school curriculum, no. Seriously, lemme just get a fork, it'll save us all some embarrassment."

Barba set his own food down to dig into the bag and retrieve the second pair of chopsticks. He broke them apart and held them up before positioning them between his thumb and forefinger, "Like this, see? One like you're holding a pencil--"

"It's not like no one's showed me," Carisi cut him off, "I'm just... I dunno, all thumbs."

"Impossible. From my estimation you're, at most, two thumbs. Let me see." He held out the chopsticks, nodding encouragingly as Carisi took them.

His ears burned so hot he could feel his pulse reverberating in their hollows. This would undoubtedly be an embarrassment of the grandest proportions, and he only hoped he spared any linens -- both the couch, and his own clothes which were nicer than usual, having been picked especially for the prospect of that morning's mass.

He slid a chopstick in each of the designated spots, the valley between thumb and forefinger and the tips, and gave a feeble smile before attempting to dig into his food. It went about as miserably as he'd imagined, even just in the attempt to direct some of the noodles from the container onto his plate. They slid away from him in fat clumps no matter how he angled the chopsticks, no matter the pressure or the grip. Whoever thought of using little sticks to guide oily noodles anywhere clearly had no grasp on physics.

Barba seemed content to watch, entirely entertained by Carisi's attempts.

"I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, at least." Carisi huffed as a clump of noodles flopped back onto the plate.

"You really are bad at it."

He dropped his hands to his lap, clutching the chopsticks in a fist. "Yeah, okay, you say that like I didn't say it first."

"Fair. Look," he said. He scooted impossibly closer, their legs pressed together warmly now as he reached across Carisi's chest and grasped the fist that held the chopsticks with both hands. "You have to hold the bottom one steady, like this, against the ring finger, or else it won't work."

Carisi's breath caught heavy in his sternum, skin buzzing with electricity at the touch. How close they were in that moment that he could make out individual strands of silver hair at the man's temples, the fine wrinkles splayed out from the corner of his eye, the soft swell of his cheek, the ridge of his brow.

Barba’s hands slowed their motions until he was simply holding Carisi's fist, his thumb running idly over the peaks and valleys of his clenched fingers. Everything dimmed until, that sense of touch was the only thing that existed: that small plane of skin that Barba's thumb traced.

The chopsticks were forgotten then, dropped maybe, or God forbid thrown in haste as he bent to meet the promise of lips, that soft give offered so freely. He drew his hands to Barba's face, searching for something to hold onto, to ground him in the moment as the details threatened to slip away from him. He traced the light dusting of stubble on his cheeks, down the strong lines of his jaw, settling at the base of his neck, his shoulders, that flex of muscle beneath his shirt.

Long fingers found his own cheeks too, the deep welling of dimples, running up into his hair and down the back of his neck, trailing that dizzying feathery touch. He couldn't be sure how long they stayed this way, entangled, learning the broad planes, the fine details, but as they surfaced slow, it was with a pair of matching grins, twinned in their flush and breathlessness.

"I--," Carisi stammered as he looked to his hand, full of shirt collar and absent of chopsticks. He let go and leaned back. "Woah."

Barba took a moment to straighten his own shirt to some degree, then slapped his palms to his thighs. "Okay. You've appealed to my greater sense of charity. I'll get you some silverware."

As the man eagerly made for the kitchen, Carisi tried to catch some firmer grounding in the reality they now both inhabited. He was entirely lightheaded, his lips still tingling.

"Hey, wait, what? Your sense of charity?"

Barba returned promptly with a knife and a fork. "Yes, see," he nodded to the utensils in his outstretched hand, "I can be charitable."

"Yeah yeah, sure." He received them with a smirk. "In my defense, I feel like your charity was a pretty elaborate set-up. Here Sonny, let me teach you how to use chopsticks." He stabbed his fork into his now-cooled noodles and began to twirl them. This was the way you ate noodles.

Barba tried and failed to swallow a laugh as rounded the coffee table to reclaim his seat. "I certainly never said that."

"Yeah, okay. Here detective," he leaned playfully into Barba's side as he joined him, "let me show you something."

Barba nudged him back into place, "Hm. Warmer, but still no. I was simply trying to do you a favor. Don't they have Chinese restaurants in Staten Island?"

"Plenty!" He didn't feel up to explaining how most of his family thought that black pepper, if applied generously, was the pinnacle of heat, and how limiting that could be growing up.

"Well, I trust you'll get it someday."

As he ate his Pad Thai with his fork, his mind began to flood with half-formed questions and worries, tangling tight until he couldn’t possibly contain them.

"Look, uh, counselor," he set down his fork, "I know we-- it's just, what are we doing?"

Barba looked to him, distant smile fading as he understood the nature of the question. "I suppose 'having dinner' is not the answer you're looking for."

"Not really."

His eyes darted around the room, as though he were searching for an answer strewn somewhere. "I didn't plan it, if that's what you're asking. It wasn't a set-up."

"Nah, that's not what I meant. I just... and last night too? I'm just... confused is all." It was a sentiment he felt deeply, but he didn't dare expound for fear of losing the moment.

"I get that. We can stop."

He rubbed at the back of his neck, "I mean, that's not..."

"Not what you want?" The corner of Barba's mouth twitched as he said it. His voice was pitched, impossibly slow as he continued, "What do you want?"

It was a tone he’d never heard before, and his pulse tore thunderous through his ears. There were a thousand answers in that moment, so many beyond his ability to articulate. He settled on the simplest one he could muster from his dry throat: "This."

"Okay,” Barba said as he continued to regard a distant point in the room. “So, then, if we're on the same page, we'll figure out the rest as we get there."

“Sounds… yeah... that’s good.” He struggled with his composure in the face of all this, the way his day had stretched on endless, encompassed so many big shifts. But mostly he felt grounded in the fact that this was a thing he wanted, had wanted for longer than maybe he’d known, and here it was presented to him, easily won. "Real good.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I'm still alive, and indeed plan to finish this in my lifetime. Work and life and the usual excuses. I'm not sure when the -next- update will be, but for now, the act of getting something done and out there is endlessly motivating.
> 
> (unbeta'd so apologies for any weird spots.)

There was a persistent hum that he couldn't shake; he felt it behind his eyes, but rubbing at them wouldn't make it stop. It bore into his teeth, the vibration. He'd been talking to someone before he'd become so distracted -- his sister, still beside him on the couch in their parents living room. They were children bathed in the dim light of the television as dinner was being prepared in the next room. There was a familiar hodgepodge of detail around him, but none fit the scene exactly: the crooked staircase from his grandma's house, the floral couch his parents had gotten rid of before he entered high school, the garlicky smell of his mother's cooking.

It was Gina beside him, and her voice distorted as she spoke, buzzing like she were imitating a bee.

"You... feelin alright?" he asked, the words jumbled and thick on his dry tongue. He was trying to pay attention to the television but he couldn't figure out what show they were watching. Nothing made sense. The laugh track seemed endless, and he felt like he was supposed to have done something important that day. What was it?

She replied to him but it came out as a hum. Everything seemed to shift slightly in place.

"Gina, come on, you're freaking me out."

And true, it'd begun to twist at him, the way all the details of the scene were imperfect: it wasn't exactly his house, his sister wasn't exactly his sister. He felt trapped, tethered to the fat cushions of the couch by something unseen, something that creeped its cold fingers around his wrists.

Carisi woke with a start just as it'd begun to unravel into deep throbs of panic.

His breath was ragged and a cold sweat prickled at his neck. His phone had clattered to the floor from where it had been laid among the papers on the coffee table. The television had switched over from the familiar sitcoms to morning talk, and sunlight had overtaken his fogged windows, blaring through the thinning curtains.

He fumbled with the phone until he found what had set off the buzz: a series of messages sent from Barba.

"The Monsignor will be by at 10. Please be prompt."

"And if you're bringing coffee with you this morning, I'll take the largest size available."

"In fact, you might do well to get a shot of espresso in mine."

"Multiple shots."

Every word loosened him from the confused horror that had taken hold of his aching muscles. He laid back on his couch with the phone, rereading the messages, then scrolling back a bit further in their conversation history. So little time had passed since their messages were those brief and formal initial thoughts about the Hodda case, and it had been barely a week since Barba was chastising him for attempting conversations through text messages. Now he was ordering coffee. Now things were different.

Their parting the night before was chaste, considering everything that had transpired. He wasn't sure who dozed on the couch first in the midst of some History channel show they'd wound up on, or who was first to wake from their light sleep, but they'd drifted together comfortably at some point, Barba pressed lightly into the crook made by his arm stretched over the back of the couch. Carisi had been reluctant to leave then, slow to gather his things as Barba watched on drowsily from where he sat. It was the easiest sleep he'd come by since he'd found Nina in the woods, maybe even before, and he was loathe to lose it. Their groggy haze created an opportunity for a clean exit, one where neither had to define the evening to the other.

He thumbed a quick reply: "quite the texter. anything else i can get ya?"

Whether Barba had become busy in the interim or simply chosen not to respond to the ribbing he didn't know, but there were no further messages as he hastened through his morning routine. Each habitual movement erased the sharp edges of the dream until it was nothing more than a vague memory of disquiet. He checked himself multiple times in the mirror before heading out, second-guessing his tie and the level at which he'd slicked his hair back. It dawned on him how different it felt to be looking forward to something on his way out the door.

\---

“You’re late.”

Barba's office door had barely settled behind Carisi before the declaration had been made, and without further acknowledgement of his entrance. He whipped his wrist up to assess his watch instinctually and, in the process, nearly upended the small tray of coffee cups he'd been balancing. He'd managed to remember to bring one for Carmen today, and she seemed appreciative of the gesture.

The watch face read 9:44. He snorted, steadying the drinks and noting Barba's barely-concealed amusement. “Yeah right. You said ten.”

Documents were already spread wide on Barba’s desk, and as Carisi set a coffee down in reaching distance, he wondered how early the guy had gotten there himself.

“Well, what if he’d been early?”

“Then he would have waited." Carisi tossed the tray in a wastebasket by the desk with a satisfying thud, "Y’know, since I had errands to run.”

“Indeed,” Barba luxuriated in a long sip from his cup, and it seemed to soften his angles considerably. “Well he should be here momentarily. You ready?”

He nodded, ambling toward the nearby window, trying to pick out the Monsignor’s black attire from the throngs of pedestrians below. The priest was a vision unto himself, and he was nowhere in sight. Carisi sipped his own drink as the people passed, willing it to wash away the shadowy cobwebs of the dream that lingered. He couldn't remember the events exactly, just that pervasive sense of unease.

“Did you," Barba began to ask, clearing his throat. "Well, I assume you made it home alright last night?”

“Huh? Oh, ah, yeah. No problems.”

“I-- that’s good.”

He hadn't been sure if the topic would come up, their evening, or if it were a thing that didn't exist in the confines of their day-to-day, but he was a bit relieved to be afforded the chance to talk about it.

Carisi turned back to face him, “You finish the show?”

"Hm? That mountain show? God no. If you'll remember, it wasn't my choice."

"Come on, the majesty of the Alaskan wilds didn't captivate you?"

"If someone chooses to die alone in the frozen wastes, that's their prerogative. Filming it is just... morbid."

"Die alone? No way! He was out there really living, you know?"

Barba raised a brow.

Impassioned in part by the plight of the Alaskan explorer, in part by the challenge in the expression, Carisi paced back to the desk. "Remember when he was tracking that wild sheep?" He perched on the corner of the desk, leaning in as he spoke, "And how he was so weak from hunger that, I mean, that was it man. Life or death. If he didn't catch that sheep, he was probably gonna die. And he couldn't spook it either, cause then that's game over."

"I don't remember the sheep, no. I had mercifully fallen asleep by then."

It struck a fond chord, the memory of it.

"Yeah," he mused, "I guess you did."

A sharp rap on the door interrupted them.

"Mr. Barba?" Carmen opened the door tentatively, and the Monsignor strode in behind her, not waiting for an introduction.

"Gentlemen," he said, stopping short of the desk with an unreadable expression. To her credit, Carmen in the doorway looked equally ruffled by his entrance. Carisi became entirely too aware of his posture in that moment, how casually he'd positioned himself on the desk, the fading warmth in his own expression. He jumped to his feet, too quick to be natural, a clear overcorrection.

The Monsignor shook hands with Barba, and as Carisi reached out to afford the same courtesy, he saw something hardened in the Monsignor's eyes. He was demonstrably different than days ago when they'd sat together with the letter, that clever plant. The thought of it, his own naiveté in the face of it, tightened his own jaw. Today the priest seemed darker still beneath his feigned confusion, his earnest attempts to appear completely taken aback by the thought that they'd want to talk to him again.

The back-and-forth that followed was more a duel than a conversation. Each quick jab delivered by Barba drew out an equally finessed parry from the Monsignor as they went through the chronology of the case. It led, finally, to the leverage: the photographs. It had become a necessary play as the man offered no other angle, no remorse, no admission.

Cutting off the Monsignor's attempts to excuse Father Eugene's indiscretions, all those empty Hail Marys performed for absolution, Carisi delivered his blow: "He's still paying five thousand dollars a month to be disciplined by his naked cowboy." He slid the photograph around on the desk to face the Monsignor, illustrating the point.

The image sucked every last wisp of air from the Monsignor's lungs, and with it went his calm aura, his carefully practiced tone.

 _So he didn't know_ \-- Carisi caught himself mid-thought, supplying those necessary details to make it fit right. _No, maybe he just knew to anticipate this too._

Either way, the Monsignor was clearly wounded by the implication, the sudden shift in the dynamic. He was made half as swift by the reveal and no match then for Barba's sharp tongue as he continued. "That's how you got him to procure girls for you to traffic. To frame Tucker for your crimes."

"No, you've got this all wrong," the Monsignor said, rising from his seat and gathering his words. "I know what you think of the Catholic Church, but it is NYPD officers who are trafficking these girls."

 _Damn it_. And here they were again, dragged by one party to the other and back again. The infinite circles these men had them running were maddening. Carisi clenched that same fist, the dullest twinge in the knuckle a reminder of the frustration he landed on the car that cold Saturday afternoon at St. Swithens.

"Monsignor, please," his voice broke as he paced the man across the office, losing sight of Barba's warning to not approach it like this. "These girls’ _lives_ are being destroyed. If you know something about this, come clean."

Carisi swore in that moment there was a second of cognizance, something dark that traced the lines of the Monsignor's face before the cool veil dropped once more. "Come clean? How dare you say that to me. I have been to a Bronx ADA, IAB, SVU, and the result? Sister Nina and young Cara are dead. The cancer isn't within my church," he pointed square into Carisi's chest as he delivered his final blow, "it's within you."

Those perfectly crafted words cracked him open at the ribs, dark tendrils playing his exposed nerves like strings. He'd have expected a door slam to follow, but the quiet click was almost deafening in its finality. So that was it, then. His head hung heavy with it, all the broken pieces laying at his feet. It took a conscious flex of muscle to lift his gaze, to glance back to where he'd left Barba at the desk.

"Huh." He cleared his throat. "Well. I think I might've just fulfilled my ma's worst nightmare," Carisi squinted at the closed door. "A Monsignor condemning me. During Lent, no less."

"He didn't--"

"Whatever. What now?" It was a question that he didn't have much heart to ask, and so it came out more a deflated statement.

Barba began to collect the photographs and papers they'd presented to the Monsignor, sliding them back into their folder. Carisi was caught between wanting to ask for reassurance, and wanting to leave without another word spoken between them. For a fleeting moment, he wanted to let it be as it was. Let the chips fall, let it be Tucker, IAB, Vice. They were guilty enough. How many more of these circles did he have the energy to travel? He thought back to that Alaskan wilderness guy on the show, half afraid to even shoot at the damn sheep ‘cause he'd be too tired to try again if he failed. The somewhat ridiculous comparison of his own life to a guy barely surviving in the arctic tundra gave him a rueful smile.

Barba interrupted his thoughts, “You realize he didn’t mean you personally, yes?”

“It sure felt like it.” Carisi wandered back toward the desk. It had felt like their last shot at a fair win, and it had ultimately amounted to nothing. "But yeah, I got the nuance."

Appearing content with the arrangement of the evidence, Barba leaned back in his chair and entwined his fingers. “Take it for what it clearly was: a cornered animal lashing out. He took an easy shot because it was there in front of him. It allowed him his exit,” he nodded to the door.

“Yeah? That simple?”

“People like him… narcissists, deeply entrenched in their own mythology. They don’t go down without a fight. And never a fair one.”

Carisi looked again to the doorway as if the man might suddenly return, summoned by the speculation.

Barba continued, “A glancing blow like this, though? His weak link exposed? He’s wounded now, and that’s when they usually get... unpredictable.”

Carisi's train of thought was interrupted by a buzz in his pocket, and he held up a finger as he fielded the incoming call.

“Carisi,” he answered, turning his back on Barba. “Yeah… no, I’m at Barba's office... the Monsignor... yeah I can tell you later... Yeah alright, yeah on my way.” He pocketed the phone and turned back: “That was Rollins. Squad picked up a rape over near Inwood last night, some masked assailant, not a whole lot to go on so far. Wanted to see if I was available for some interviews around there this morning.”

“Hm.”

“It’s never ending, huh? And we're really scrambling without the lieutenant.”

Barba checked his own phone and seemed to be relieved to find its contents without merit. “On my end too, unfortunately. Speaking of which, any results to share?”

“Results?” It took a minute for the synapses to connect. “Oh. Those. Nah. It’ll be a while. Hey, I thought you’d know that. Or, wow, has it really been that long for you?”

Barba let loose a long-suffering sigh. “Don’t let me and my pleasantries keep you from your police work.”

“Really, Barba, thanks for asking.” He moved to round the corner of the desk and stopped, struck hard with the memory of the Monsignor's face from that vantage. How foolish he'd looked earlier, so comfortably perched, enraptured, unaware.

He knocked a knuckle on the desk instead, mumbling a much less eloquent sentiment than he'd have liked, and made his swift departure without another glance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for your time and feedback. Knowing that people still enjoy what I've written is lovely beyond words.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas y'all <3 Un-beta'd, but with an earnest attempt.

The sun weighed heavy on the horizon when Carisi and Rollins finally made it back to the station that afternoon. They were empty-handed, frustrated after following up on what had started out as a strong lead. Fin had been finishing a phone call at his desk when they entered, and he spun his chair to address the two.

"So, how'd the Tinder guy turn out?"

Their Inwood vic had recently been on a less-than-stellar Tinder date, one with a guy who clearly lied about his age and sent a few nasty texts after she’d stopped communicating with him. Seemed like a slam-dunk find, an entitled guy with a real sour-grapes attitude; that was until they met him.

"Dude's a giant," Carisi said, gesturing above his own head. "Like, Carmelo tall. No way he's our guy."

"Must be tall if _you_ think he's tall," Fin said, amused.

"Yeah," Rollins cut in, "and her injuries are consistent with the attacker being around her own height. Besides, this Tinder guy was apparently showing some upstate property yesterday--”

“He’s one of those Park Avenue types," Carisi waved a hand, "I’d think his paycheck alone would get him more dates than some photoshopped pics on a dating app.”

"Some guys just don't like getting old," Fin replied, his expression a dare to ask how he knew that. Carisi knew better than to take the bait.

The comment drew an eye roll from Rollins as she dropped her jacket over her desk chair. “Yeah, well, despite his fragile ego, he doesn't seem good for it. Being upstate puts him out of the vicinity at the time of the attack. We'll need to verify that alibi, but I think he's in the clear. How 'bout you, Fin? Anything turn up in her background?"

Fin shook his head and gestured to his computer. "I got nothing. No social media surprises, no legal troubles--"

"Yeah, well I think I got something," Dodds interrupted their conversation as he breezed through the bullpen from the Lieutenant's office, speaking to no one in particular as he moved.

Carisi chased his wake, "Sarge, you got something on the Inwood vic?" Rollins and Fin were fast to follow in their lead.

"Worse." Dodds grabbed the remote from their wide meeting table and clicked on the television to the local news feed.

Centered on the steps of his stately cathedral stood the Monsignor in all his pomp, surrounded by eager reporters. He was flanked by Bishop Catalano and other church officials, all conveniently reappeared from whatever solitary vigils had kept them from cooperating.

Fin snorted. "Guess the Bishop found some time in his busy schedule."

They all watched together in stunned silence as the two men took deft control of the narrative, wasting no time in throwing all the players under the bus, manipulating the hand that Barba and Carisi had revealed that morning until it was near unrecognizable.

Carisi rubbed at his jaw. "Yeah, how about that. Everyone's knee-deep except for them." The rest of the squad murmured agreement, all eyes still fixed to the scene unfolding. He took a moment to type a furtive text to Barba: "u seein this?"

After Bishop Catalano had said his prayer for the lost and broken girls, the news switched back to the studio where two anchors sat, shaking their heads in earnest disbelief. "Troubling revelations from the Catholic Church in the wake of their own Sister Nina Kelly's death," the female anchor said in that perfect television cadence. "Catholic Church officials have just placed stunning allegations at the feet of some of the biggest organizations in city politics. We'll head over now to our local correspondent at the Bronx DA's office for further comment--"

With that, Dodds flicked off the television. Carisi's phone lit up with Barba's response: "Unfortunately. What did I tell you?" He was right, and of course he was; he always was. The Monsignor, that wounded animal, had just lashed out.

Rollins drew back the veiled silence in the room, "Well they're certainly cleaning up shop."

"And getting the Feds involved," Fin said. "Bold. They must have covered their bases."

"Or, you know, maybe they're in on it too," Rollins added. "Right? I mean 'cause really, how high does this go?"

Dodds seemed to search the room for words, but none came easy.

"There's still Akintola," Carisi offered, hopeful in spite of the grim expressions in his midst, all the photographs still pinned to their corkboards beneath notes detailing how far they'd all come in this investigation. "It's not a total dead end, yeah? I mean, we still got Natalia's testimony."

Dodds shook his head. "No, I've got to talk to my father. Brass will likely... well I don't know, honestly. I don't know where this puts us." He began to leave the room, but as though the rest of the squad's continued presence at the table suddenly struck him, he turned back: "So uh, you guys hang tight. Finish up what you can with the Inwood case for now, but go home. I'm going to talk to... my father. We'll hit the ground running as soon as I know our next move."

The rest of them sat around the table for a moment after Dodds' departure, steeped in their collective silence. Carisi wondered what this moment would have looked like with the lieutenant back in charge, what her orders would have been. He was fairly certain that she wouldn't have been too quick to check in with the Deputy Chief; and yet, she was gone now and Dodds was in her stead, and wasn't that a clear illustration of the differences inherent in those decisions.

"You know, before all this,” Fin said, gesturing to the dark television, “I was sayin’ that I didn’t find much in our vic’s background, but I did find something in the system. There was another rape a week ago that kinda fits this MO. Same area, didn’t get much traction because she didn’t have much to go on. But some of it matches. Guy’s in a mask, sneaks up on her, doesn’t say anything that she can remember, no DNA. She reported a necklace stolen.”

“Yeah, and our vic lost an earring, right?" She glanced to Carisi, who gave a confirming nod in response. "So... you think we’ve got a serial?”

“Maybe," Fin leaned back in his chair as he spoke, folding his hands across his chest. "Something about it caught my eye though. This vic, she mentioned being creeped out by the local homeless shelter in the neighborhood. She didn’t have any specifics, so the reporting officers didn’t see a need to follow up. You guys hear anything about a homeless shelter on your travels?”

Carisi glanced to Rollins who met his gaze, her expression solemn. “She didn't mention any shelter to us,” he said.

Truthfully, her story tugged a bit at Carisi's conscience, as though it were a plane that could bear further weight at this point. She was a quiet and mousy type; her Tinder date had been a first foray into adult dating after heavy encouragement from some of her coworkers. To say the attack had changed her outlook on dating would be an understatement.

“Well it's worth lookin’ into,” Fin stretched as he stood from his seat. He looked tired, Carisi thought.

“Hey, I can take a look at the place," he said, hoping to spare Fin the evening. "Get some background, maybe ask around. I could use the OT."

Rollins tilted her head, "Were we still on for dinner? And seriously, don't you have enough OT at this point?"

"Dinner, huh," Fin raised his brow.

“Wanna come?” Rollins flashed him an inviting smile. "Carisi's cooking. Or, he was going to."

“That’s alright,” he said with a distant chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to intrude.”

If there was an implication there, Carisi chose to ignore it. "Damn, I totally forgot." Between the enormity of the Monsignor's maneuver and the angles of the Inwood case, he'd completely forgotten her invitation from the day before. "Rain check?"

"You need to take a break, Carisi." There was a palpable edge to her voice, almost maternal. "Besides, Dodds said we should go home."

He sighed. "You're right. I just-- I don't want to miss something, you know?"

"Well there's nothing to miss right now. But hell y'know, stay if you're determined. I've gotta relieve my nanny, so..."

He struggled to concede the point. "No, yeah, you're...I get it. We'll check on the shelter in the morning."

"That's good," Rollins said, standing from her seat. "'Cause I was not looking forward to another night of takeout."

Takeout. A bolt of memory struck him: the chopsticks abandoned the night before, and where they could have ever wound up.

\---

"So what  _did_ you guys tell the Monsignor?" Rollins asked from her couch, rocking a milk-drunk Jesse in the crook of her arm. "At your meeting this morning?"

Carisi split fistfuls of dry noodles into the boiling pot on her stove as he spoke, "That we knew about Father Eugene. That we knew that he knew about Father Eugene. He denied that part of course--"

"Of course," she echoed.

"You know, I really should’a seen it coming," he turned to face her, gesturing with the ladle he held, "The whole press conference. Really, I think I was given the first draft of his speech."

"Yeah?"

"Like I said to Barba, it was the first time I'd been condemned by a Monsignor during the Lenten season." He chuckled at the thought, but it came out more strained than he'd anticipated.

"Wow. Yeah Carisi, I mean never pegged you for the Catholic school bad-boy type."

"I wasn't," he said, turning back to his work. He amended, "Not often, at least," thinking of darker occasions spent in the paneled confessionals, how that rich wood smell never really left you in your guiltiest moments.

Carisi settled in to the quiet concentration of making a simple marinara, focusing on the repetitive motion of knife hitting cutting-board, the soothing sound of bubbling pots. He didn't have the energy for flourish, but simmering fresh ingredients was better than anything out of a jar, and in turn looked like a gourmet meal as it was dished steaming onto plates.

They ate their meal quietly, the evening soundtracked by distant city noise and the intermittent clacking of Frannie's nails on the hardwood, the occasional dull thump from an adjacent unit. His heart brimmed over at the sounds of Jesse cooing in her crib, the domesticity of the moment he inhabited here, a rarity in his life. Even at home with his own family, his young nieces, quiet calm was not a Carisi family trait.

He often wondered if this would be his own life someday: family dinners, babies in their cribs, the feeling of a home as a sanctuary and not just a collection of rooms you inhabited. A wife across from him as he ate.

He watched Rollins spin fat noodles on her fork, the concentration knit in her brow as she worked them. He wasn't opposed to the idea; in fact, it was a nice thought, one he'd entertained with girlfriends before. He continued to struggle then with how the desire existed inside him, shelved beside the insistent thrum he felt thinking of Barba, of that electric path his thumb had drawn over Carisi's aching knuckles and how he could conjure the feeling of it even in fleeting memories of the moment.

"What's up?" Rollins was watching him, and her expression made him acutely aware of how far he'd wandered into the maze of his own mind.

"Huh? Nothin'."

"You're staring into space, you've barely eaten. What's going on with you?"

He began to spin a clump of noodles around on his fork hastily, losing more than he gained in the motion. "One of those weeks," he said instinctively, an easy turn-of-phrase to rely on. "Just can't imagine where we're headed next."

She set her fork down. "Listen, I know this case has been kinda hard on you. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry if any of my dumbass comments have made it harder. I was raised in the land of hellfire and hypocrisy. Sometimes, I dunno, it's hard for me to see past that brand of religious upbringing."

He gave a tight shrug. "Nah, it's not like that. I mean, you were right about half of it anyway. Those guys clearly didn't deserve an ounce of the blind faith I put in 'em."

"Well, yeah," she said with a chuckle. "Says more about them than you, though."

He smiled. She was the second person in as many days to say as much. It didn't relieve his own guilt, not by half, but after damn near a year of being the guy on the squad inches away from being traded out for being too much himself, an uncontrollable quality, it was indescribable to then come to be valued for that same nature.

Maternal concern had overtaken her features. "But it just seems like you've been more down than usual. I was hoping this case wasn't getting to you that much."

He shrugged again, taking a bite from his fork.

"You got other stuff going on? How are your sisters?"

"Oh you know. Teresa's mad at Bella for acting like she invented motherhood. And, of course, vice versa. But they'll never tell each other that, what good would that do? Less to complain about." He gestured with his empty fork as he spoke, "And Gina's bringing some new guy to Easter apparently, but there's enough time between now and then that... I mean, who knows. Still enough time for Teresa to try to con me into running his background. _For the safety of the family_."

Rollins laughed. "Your family... is a trip."

"Yeah, true, but one without any rest stops." He knew not to reflect the question to her; Kim was a sore subject, her mother even more so.

Her laughter faded. "It just seems like something else is getting to you lately. Or, y'know, maybe it is just that I've been a jerk about the Catholic thing, and like I said, I'm sorry."

The sincerity of her apology, her clear concern, it overwhelmed him with a desire to just lay it out on the table, to shake out the contents of his anxious brain and let someone else put the pieces together for him. Why not Amanda? She seemed to get him, sometimes on an innately deeper level than he felt comfortable with.

He stammered. "Actually, I-- I'm. Ah, well, I'm not-- but--"

As though she were trying to tell him to spit it out, Jesse let out a sudden ear-splitting screech from the other room, followed by a long desperate sob.

"Oh baby girl, what's the matter?" Rollins hopped up from her place at once and plucked her from her crib. Jesse wailed in her arms as Rollins bounced her around the room, whispering soothing words. Carisi melted into his own shame. What had he even tried to say? Why was it so hard to put words to it? He felt a buzz in his pocket then and grabbed his phone, the initial twist of anxiety in his stomach tempered by the name on the notification: Bella.

"u see the news about that perv priest? u don't go to his church right?"

"i did see. i don't go to his church."

Her reply was quick: "phew! ur soul is safe."

It's not, probably, he thought.

She followed up: "did u guys catch him?"

Carisi fought hard against the memory of it: the smell of incense and leather at Father Eugene's apartment, the dim glow of the candelabras, the city lights reflected on his face in the back of the squad car as they drove.

"our dept, yeah."

"good! he should rot."

Part of him agreed with the sentiment, but he couldn't find it in himself to type it out as a response.

Jesse's wailing had softened to tolerable whimpers and Rollins brought her to the table. She held Jesse against her chest as she sat, that small head nestled in the crook of her neck as she rubbed her back. "She hasn't been sleeping too well lately. Fights against it most nights."

"Explains why you're so cheerful in the mornings," he said, setting the phone on the table.

She scrunched her nose, barely biting down a laugh. "You're a real pal, you know that?"

"What can I say?"

"Well, hey, what were you trying to say? Before Jesse so rudely interrupted."

He waved a hand, "Ah, nothin'." She started to protest the dismissal, but he continued, "Honestly, just, seein' a bunch of guys you were raised to believe in do a bunch of despicable things, it's kinda... I dunno, demoralizing. Not questioning my faith, exactly. I guess just questioning... who I put my faith in."

She adopted a far-off expression. "I can get that."

When Rollins left the table again to try to lay a quieted Jesse in her crib, Carisi stole a glance at his phone. The conversation with Bella had tapered off naturally, but a new notification popped up: Barba.

"I'm catching a nightcap at Forlini's if you care to join."

He checked his watch, then typed back: "for how long? i'm at Rollins' apt for dinner"

She tiptoed back to her seat and whispered, "I think she's down now, or at least headed there."

He lowered his own voice in response, "Maybe I should head out?"

His phone buzzed loud where he'd placed it on the table and he grabbed it quick to silence it. They both winced, waiting for a waking sound from Jesse, but the disturbance didn't seem to faze her.

“Hot date?" She nodded to his phone.

"Two in one night?" he quipped. "With our hours?"

"Ha ha," she said, grabbing their empty plates, careful not to make any more noise than necessary as she took them to the kitchen. He followed her, checking his phone as he walked.

Barba had replied: "Oh, don't let me interrupt."

"the baby already did a bunch. loudly. you're a nicer interruption." He considered the message a moment before pressing send, leaning back against Rollins' stove as she rinsed the dishes. He wasn't sure how it would land, but figured the presence of alcohol would soften the man's usual bristly exterior.

"I'm, ah, I am kinda seein' someone," he said to Rollins' back, easier to admit when she wasn't watching him. "I think," he added, softer.

"How sweet," she said, a tinge of saccharine to her tone. "Who is she?"

 _She_. The word, how naturally it rolled off her tongue, it shut down any notion he had of teasing out the truth. "No one you'd know. Law school," he said with a wince, managing to find a suitable excuse. He hated lying to her, and he fervently wished he'd kept his mouth shut about it. He worried about how many more details he'd have to make up on the spot, and moreover, which ones he'd have to remember.

"You're not gonna leave me and become a lawyer, are you?"

He frowned. It was not the response he'd expected. "What? Who said that?"

"Barba mentioned you took the bar." She turned the faucet off with an elbow and grabbed a dish towel to dry her hands. "Yesterday. When you huffed off over his Fordham jokes." He made to cut in but she countered quick, "No one believed you were going to get a candy bar, okay? And granted, I think it was the first time I'd heard him admit he might have crossed the line with you, but... I dunno, I didn't think I’d hear that kind of news from someone else, let alone him."

Carisi was dumbstruck. "He… said all that?"

"Said he shouldn't have poked you so hard, that you'd taken the bar and it was," she air quoted, "admirable."

"Wow."

"I know, right? Big words from a guy like that. But seriously, why didn't _you_ tell me?" She lightly jabbed at his arm.

"I didn't _not_ tell you, okay? It came up with him naturally at some point, being that he's a lawyer and I think I’ve learned a lot from him. I dunno, I felt like if I started spreading it around to everyone I'd jinx myself, y'know?"

"Everyone, huh?"

"Come on. You know what I mean."

She furrowed her brow. "So you are planning on leaving SVU."

"Nah. I mean, not exactly. Not planning on it. You don't sink that much time and money into law school not to take the bar, Rollins."

"I know," she said, resigned. "Just, don't make me have to get any more news from Barba. The guy has enough to feel superior about in his everyday life."

He laughed. "I don't know about that."

She turned back to the dishes, "Don't get me wrong. I'm glad he's on our side. Just, god I hate being on the opposite side of that knowing smirk. Like the cat that got the cream."

Carisi checked on his phone then, finding that Barba's response to his earlier message was ironic given the current conversation. "A nicer interruption than a crying baby. Flattery will get you everywhere. Perhaps a raincheck."

"sure thing. i'm looking forward to it."

The reply was immediate, and radiated warm across his body. "Me too."

\---

Rollins was the second to arrive at the station the next morning, not long after Carisi who had set himself up at his desk with a large cup of coffee and research. "I thought I told you not to spend the night here!"

"And I didn't," he shot back, sweeping a palm across his desk as though it were proof of that fact.

She set her things on her own desk. "You don't look like you got any sleep. How am I supposed to believe you didn't just come back here last night and get started?"

"Yeah, well, you don't look like the picture of relaxation yourself. How's that fussy baby of yours?"

She huffed. "Touché. Well anyway early bird, what have you got?"

"This homeless shelter?" He gestured to his computer screen, "It's got a wing for convicted rapists. That's what I've got."

She visibly darkened. "You're not serious."

"As a heart-attack. Seems like the location was picked because of how far it is from schools. Locals put up a bit of a fight about it when it was first getting built, but it hasn't been the source of much trouble since then."

"God, if the news catches wind of that, rekindles that flame... I mean two rapes in the vicinity of a shelter with a wing for guys on the registry..."

"That doesn't sound good," Fin interjected, having arrived at his desk, looking most well-rested of all. "Reporters will eat that up."

"Could inspire vigilantes, even," Carisi said, biting idly on the end of a pen he'd been taking notes with.

"And that's the last thing we need..." Rollins trailed off, watching as Dodds appeared in the entryway. "Hey," she broached, wary, "how'd it go?"

He was a stern looking guy even on his best days; always somewhat unreadable. Today, immeasurable loss darkened his features, and his expression told Carisi they'd lost. Really, he should have known it was over before it began. It was over the moment the vice cops pulled their badges.

"I'll debrief you guys in five," Dodds said, heading for the lieutenant's office.

"Copy that," Fin replied, then exchanged a look with Rollins.

Once they'd all assembled around the large table, Dodds looked no less haunted than when he'd arrived at the station. Carisi leaned against the partition, watching as Dodds plucked each pin from the cork board, meticulous in his work. The pile of discarded photos grew thick with guilty men who got away with it. These men who got to slink back to their homes and their lives, and because of the intricate web they'd woven with all the red tape and deceit, the squad had their hands tied with it.

As Dodds relayed the word from on high, the lieutenant would likely come back and Tucker would take an early retirement. Easy fixes, those. The rest of it though, it ate at Carisi.

"How about Father Eugene," Rollins asked, the mention of his name catching Carisi's attention.

Dodds sighed, waving the man's photograph as he removed it from consideration, "He is aware of the severity of his wrongdoings. He's repentant, and they're making plans to send him far away."

"No," Carisi said, his sudden interjection into the conversation surprising the others. "No look, they hung this guy out to dry, alright? The least we can do for these girls is take one more run at him."

Dodds shook his head. "Tucker says there's no point. His cousin doesn't have a soul to save."

Carisi steeled his jaw as Dodds left him to consider the point. The photographs of the victims still hung from their pins across the room, suspended in that web woven tight around them. To let this loose thread dangle would damn them to that eternal fate.

He lifted the discarded picture of Eugene to examine it, the lines of the man's face, the multitudes contained behind his eyes, that stroke of white at his neck. Carisi had prayed again and again throughout this case for the gut instinct to figure these guys out, to see them for what they were, and yet the man in the photograph still looked like a priest, still looked human. He dropped the photo once more, letting it flutter to the table with the rest.

Maybe Tucker didn't think that Eugene had a soul to save, but Carisi was nothing if not an optimist, one well-versed in absolution.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is chief among why the story's tagged internalized homophobia. I don't want to overstate things, especially as it's a more abstract concept in the grand scheme of things, I just am mentioning that in case.

At first, the endless stream of uniforms delivering boxes of evidence to Barba’s office had seemed almost comical. They carried tub after dirt-caked tub brimming with evidence in the truest sense of the word. They'd been fastidious record-keepers, all these holy men, documenting their refined process from start to bloodied finish.

After their initial assessment of the haul, the rest of the squad had dispersed to prepare for the arrests. Carisi hung back, in part a volunteered effort to get any necessary paperwork. Mostly he was just rendered immobile by the weight of it, all that guilt and misery, all those girls posed innocent and broken under portraits of cherubs. What chilled him to his core was that he almost understood the impulse, the inclination to keep such detailed records of your sins and bury them with your dead.

“Burying this in the graveyard was a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” Barba completed his thought, standing just inside the doorway and taking in the scene. For a moment Carisi wondered if he’d been thinking out loud. "I’m impressed you got all this from him," he continued. "I figured he’d be home free, ready to take his church-sanctioned healing retreat off the sunny coast of somewhere.”

“Yeah," Carisi's voice was raw, and he cleared the emotion from his throat. "Yeah, well, he had a bit of priesthood left to appeal to.” Father Eugene had been a well and truly broken man when he offered up the location of the damning evidence, and Carisi doubted he was looking forward to any such luxury. He flipped over a photograph that had been watching him speak, her eyes asking a question he couldn’t answer. “You know, I thought about bein’ a priest for a while.”

“There have been stranger idle fancies,” Barba said as he joined him at the table.

“It wasn’t idle, it was a pretty real ambition there for a while.”

“I’m not entirely surprised by that. What dissuaded you?”

“Puberty.”

Barba raised a brow in his direction. 

He leveled a palm, “I mean, more than that, obviously. But it played a part.” He remembered the realization that priests couldn't marry, and what that had meant to a perpetually lovesick kid. There had truly been more to it, more that was still difficult to articulate. A fatal flaw, something resembling a general sense of unworthiness for a calling as high as the priesthood.

“Would that the world possessed your self-awareness,” Barba mused as he gathered a few of the photographs together.

Carisi let out a stilted chuckle in response. That particular sentiment, that he was somehow gifted in the art of self-awareness, it felt galaxies from the truth at this moment.

Barba continued, “With this lot, a grand jury will indict, no question. All of them. You'll have effectively cleared house.”

“Good.” The word sat bitter on his tongue. He wished it were a thing Sister Nina could know. He wished he could tell her, that small squirming woman in the interrogation room weeks ago, that her work was not in vain.

Barba straightened his pile as he spoke, “I will, obviously, have my hands full with this.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

The table was blanketed in piles and piles of photographs and paperwork. Still-unopened boxes dotted the perimeter, overfull with their promises of even more. Carisi assumed that assistants would be in soon to start arranging, categorizing, making those necessary phone calls. Even then, it was a lot for an office to contend with.

“That's a reminder, in case you get the urge to start philosophizing at me through text messages in the coming days.”

The stab broke through his cloud of melancholy. “Hey...”

A wry half-shrug was all he got in return, a bit of mischief in Barba’s expression.

“I got the hint, counselor,” he emphasized the title as he stood from his seat. “I’ll get my philosophizing outta your hair.”

Barba's grin was lopsided, earnest. “You can be particularly obtuse at times.”

He furrowed his brow. “If that’s meant to make me feel better, well, you’re not so great at that.”

“Oh, I'd like to think I’ve had at least a few successes in that endeavor." The comment, its tone, stoked a familiar heat at Carisi's collar, and in turn a nauseating twist at his stomach for the impropriety of the feeling at that very moment, in the midst of everything around them. "But what I was trying to say was that perhaps you’d like to grab food before I disappear into this. I’ll likely be working round-the-clock until I can convene the grand jury. We’ve already been in touch with women who were inspired by the Monsignor's press conference to come forward with their stories, so once we link them with their photographs and records...”

"Oh," he checked his watch. "Yeah, I could spare a bit, I guess."

"Good. I'll have Carmen order something, do you have a preference?"

"Counselor wait," he held up a hand, "I just.... all this, it's kinda... I need some fresh air. Do you think we could walk somewhere?" Barba's expression was hard to decipher, and so he continued to babble, "You know, because if that's too much, I can just get outta your hair--"

"Carisi, it's alright. We'll take a walk." There was a softness to his voice as he busied himself with buttoning his cuffs. "We can get something nearby. I'll let Carmen know to have some people start organizing these.”

"Thanks. Really."

Once outside the building, the earth seemed to loosen its grip on his chest. He felt, in the absence of all those photographs, the ability to breathe freely again. The further they got from the building, the firmer the ground felt beneath him. They walked comfortably through the throngs of pedestrians, close enough that their arms bumping together was a constant that neither moved away from.

Barba directed him to a small deli, one he'd never been to before. They ordered sandwiches and sat side-by-side on vinyl stools at the Formica counter. Carisi's long legs angled outward into Barba's space, and again, neither moved away from the closeness.

"If you don't mind me asking," Barba said between bites, dabbing his lips with a napkin, "how did you finally manage to get through to Father Eugene?"

Carisi thought back to that gloomy cathedral, colored light from the stained glass dappling the nave. “Like I said, he had some priesthood left."

"Yes, you said."

"I reminded him that God was listening to him, even still." He sat up straighter on his stool, "That God still looks gracious on us people weighed down by our consciences. That we're always lifted up by His mercy."

Barba gave a small, surprised chuckle. "You weren't kidding when you said you wanted to be a priest,"

Carisi shrugged, "It was fitting. I lifted it from the homily the other day."

"And to think Liv ever doubted your empathetic nature." It was a fond sentiment, the way he said it, but the mention of the lieutenant clouded his expression considerably.

"She'll be back soon," Carisi offered. "Dodds said she was gonna be back even before all the evidence, so I guess this clears her and Tucker both."

"I suppose it does."

"I wonder if Tucker will still take early retirement, though."

Barba set his jaw. "Oh, I doubt it."

"Yeah?"

"He's too good at his job. Where else can he best use that relentless... skepticism."

"Fair point." Carisi smiled at the description but it wasn't returned. "Have you talked to her since she was moved? The lieutenant?"

"Me? No. Well," he furrowed his brow, "she attempted to talk to me right after her transfer. Clearly it was a conflict, I told her as much. Why, have you?"

"Not a word."

"Despite it all I feel she was well represented in her absence." The underlying sentiment, Dodds' clear communications with her throughout, remained unspoken.

Carisi crumpled the paper wrapping that had once housed his sandwich. "Dodds did alright, you know? I get the sense he's gonna move on to bigger things some day--”

“Or his father will make the move for him,” Barba interjected.

“Ha. Yeah. But really, I think he'd do well at SVU."

Barba hummed acknowledgement, finishing the last bites of his own sandwich.

"Hey, speaking of moving on, Rollins told me last night that she was concerned I'm leaving the squad."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, get this. She told me that you told her about my bar exam."

"Oh, this is about gossip,” Barba said mildly. “Charming."

Carisi couldn't help the pride in his voice as he continued, "She said that you told her you thought I was admirable. A direct quote, she said. And said you always thought you were too hard on me--"

"Wait a minute," he cut in, defensive. "I feel like some basic truths are being stretched here. First of all, I said I thought your _attempt at the bar_ was admirable. Second, I admitted that perhaps the comparison between you and the real estate broker..." Barba trailed off, seeming to catch the glint of mischief in Carisi's expression. "I see. Well played."

"They could write epics about the journey in trying to get a simple compliment outta ya, counselor."

He waved a hand dismissively. "If I hand them out too freely it dilutes the value."

"I mean, I guess that's true," he conceded.

Barba turned to study him, considering his words. "When I said earlier that I was impressed that you got the admission from Father Eugene, it wasn't true."

"So wait, lemme get this straight, now you're retracting a compliment?"

"Not exactly. Can I finish?" Carisi bid him to continue, and so he did. "I'm not impressed, I'm... satisfied. To be impressed would be to say that I had underestimated your abilities."

"Nah, somehow this still feels like you've taken back a compliment and paid it to yourself."

Barba huffed a dramatic sigh. "Look. What I mean is that I don't think you get half the credit you deserve on a good day. Like today. But you don't need some curated sentiment from me to confirm that you're damn good at this. That you're an impressive person at base value. You are."

Carisi was pretty sure if the world ended in that moment, he'd have been okay. He'd have a few regrets, sure, one of them chiefly being that he couldn't lean over and kiss that struggle to appear impassive off of Barba's face, couldn't sate the overwhelming desire to taste the weight of those words on his lips. But the high praise coiled around him like a shield against the rest of it: all the sordid photographs, all the misdirection he'd been taken with, all the doubt for being too earnestly himself.

"Jeez. Well, damn. That's a hell of a compliment."

Barba's phone buzzed on the counter and he broke the moment to pick it up, murmuring, "Don't get used to it." He trailed off then, engrossed in whatever message he’d received.

Carisi didn't pay it much mind. Truthfully, he'd lost himself somewhere back in that vague fantasy, that alternate universe where he leaned into that heady scent of cologne. "Well," he mused, "I know you'd be a fantastic reference if I ever get an interview for ADA. I think Rollins might kill me if I did, though."

As quick as the compliment had been paid, the warm tone faded. "Let's get going. We've got to get the warrants and... god all the paperwork. There's way too much on my plate to be taking a long lunch."

"Work calls?" Carisi nodded to the phone still clutched in Barba's hand.

As though surprised by it, Barba quickly stuffed it in his pocket. "Yes," he replied, a beat too late. “They’ve got questions, I need to provide answers."

"Everything okay?" Carisi could read a person pretty easy, could sense the thrum of anxiety radiating as Barba gathered his things and left a tip on the counter. "Hey, I didn't mean to get too personal or anything--"

Barba stopped for a moment, reached out and squeezed his forearm. "It's not you. Promise. It's how late I'm going to be stuck in the office tonight in relation to how long I sit idly at this counter. And tomorrow night, for that matter. And the foreseeable future, really, so let's get going," he urged Carisi, who threw a few crumpled bills of his own on the counter and led them out.

Back on the street cutting that familiar path to the DA's office, Carisi couldn't help but feel it was him, somehow, or something he'd said. Perhaps they'd gotten too familiar in public. Perhaps his thoughts had been too clearly written on his face. The shift in tone was perceptible -- Barba no longer bumped arms comfortably with him, choosing instead to walk with a fair distance between them. His posture was stiff and he seemed to be scanning the distance as they moved, the faces of everyone they passed.

"And you're sure everything's okay?" he asked once more as they approached the building.

Barba appeared to turn something over in his mind before a steeled determination set on his face, the expression not unlike the moment the hallway waiting for the jury to come back in the D'Amico case. "Ah, but can we ever be sure?"

"Come on, now you're just being dramatic."

"I've been called worse." Barba said, his eyes scanning the horizon. "Anyway, this is my stop."

"It is," Carisi said, rubbing at the back of his neck. He knew something was wrong, but Barba didn't crack easy, and he was well aware that any clumsy pushing on his part would only send him deeper into his shell. "Well, good luck with everything I guess."

As he began leave, Barba called out his name.

Carisi turned to face him, his brow raised in question.

"I'll call when I can," he said with the hint of a hopeful smile, "When I'm freed up."

"Yeah, okay," he grinned back, "I'd like that."

\---

With Barba gone quiet in the coming days, understandably buried under the casework, Carisi busied himself with helping to connect the dots on their Inwood case. Rollins and Fin had taken lead, paying another visit to the first vic who confirmed that she'd always had a bad feeling about some of the residents of the homeless shelter in the neighborhood. According to their notes, she'd seen a few that liked to frequent the corner store for cigarettes and lottery tickets, and their demeanor made her uncomfortable.

Fin spent a few shifts that week canvassing the neighborhood, interviewing locals and watching the comings and goings of the shelter residents. It was unsurprising to find that a majority of neighborhood felt uncomfortable with how mobile the shelter population could be, how frequently you could run across a few of them smoking on the corners. Almost everyone Fin interviewed associated the shelter with its sex offender contingent immediately, which in turn meant the squad had to tease out fact from an underlying sense of bias. It was likely what influenced the reporting officers to discount the first vic's suggestion of the place.

Carisi had found comfort in distancing himself from details of the Catholic church case as the week wore on. On one hand, he would have liked to witness the courtroom scene, Barba's mastery over his own domain an enthralling sight; on the other, he was glad for the reprieve from all the details. Hearing the victims recount their miserable histories was never easy, but these ones would be especially difficult to stomach.

He'd had a brief interlude from Inwood and all the paperwork in his midnight adventure with Rollins to pick up Akintola from JFK. He'd flown in under another name, a tip from Barba's office, from one of the nun's testimonies, and they were there to greet him upon arrival. It'd been with great pride that he announced in that small holding room, half to Akintola and half to Rollins, that the man was clearly no priest. 

It was the shift after picking up Akintola when everything began to bleed together, all the street names and interviewees, dates and times and form codes. After nearly falling asleep at his desk for a third time, he decided on coffee to get himself over the hump. He was halfway to the break room when his phone startled him.

"Carisi," he answered the call without a glance.

"Six," was the reply from the other line.

He stopped short, not quite sure who he was speaking to. "Scuse me?"

"Indictments. Six so far. Grand jury's on a roll." It was unmistakably Barba. His tone reminded Carisi of Rollins' earlier description: like the cat that got the cream. "We're calling it for the day, thought you'd like to know."

"That's great! Really, wow." He grinned to himself, "I'd say I'm impressed but, well, that'd just be me underestimating your skill."

"Funny."

He leaned back against the wall, reveling in the unabashed gloating, or more that he’d been the chosen recipient of it. "Hey, you wanna grab dinner tonight? Celebrate the win?" There was a beat of silence on the other line, just enough to let Carisi's mind lurch at the thought that he'd overstepped. His smile faded, "I mean, if you have time, if you're not busy."

"That's fine. Come by when you're off, I'll be finishing up paperwork for the rest of my days at this rate."

"Alright. It's okay?"

"It is. I'll see you this evening."

Carisi considered the phone in his hand for a moment after the call had ended. It was a win, they were clearing house as Barba had said, and yet it didn't feel entirely won. He turned back to the squad room where Chief Dodds was making an exit; Carisi had never seen him enter to begin with. Sergeant Dodds was unloading a box of effects at his old desk, chatting with Rollins as he worked, and so Carisi assumed that Benson had been effectively reinstated.

"Hey guys, that was Barba," he waved his phone, catching the attention of the squad. "The grand jury's on a roll."

\---

Carmen was long gone for the evening by the time he arrived at the office, and as Carisi cut across the entry he was reminded of the night he'd come to find Barba so undone over his meeting with the lieutenant. He rapped on the door, not waiting for further acknowledgement to enter, and as he opened the door, a small part of him winced at the thought that he might come across that scene again.

Thankfully he did not. Barba was at his desk, an amber sliver remaining in a glass perched beside him as he pored over paperwork. He glanced up, and Carisi was entirely unwound by the warmth in Barba's expression.

"You made it."

"Yeah, sorry for bein' late," he shut the door behind him. "I got wrapped up with stuff at the station. Did you hear the lieutenant's coming back tomorrow?"

Barba considered his drink before draining the final dregs. "Now I have."

"Yeah, well, Dodds moved out of her office and everything. It'll be good to get her back." Barba’s expression made it clear that the lieu still wasn't an easy topic, and so Carisi changed course. "But anyway, did you wanna get out of here?" He thumbed over his shoulder, already cataloging a list of dinner suggestions.

"I need to finish something here first. I got caught up too. Make yourself a drink while you wait," he gestured towards the small office stash.

"Oh, ah, sure." He wandered towards the small collection of bottles and glasses, but wasn't very taken by the notion. "What are you in the mood for? I got tons of suggestions," he said as he drew out the feigned examination of a bottle.

"Surprise me," Barba said, and Carisi could hear the sound of his pen dragging sharp across paper, imagined that he’d barely afforded him a glance as he replied.

Carisi drew a second bottle and turned it over in his hands, watching the liquid slosh against its confines. "It kinda depends on where you wanna go, though. I could suggest some places near me, but then that's getting pretty far uptown."

"We could just order something from my place," Barba suggested, and when Carisi turned he found that he was actually being watched. "Did you _want_ a drink?" He cocked his head, "It's a bit early in the evening to go straight from the bottle."

"Ha. That's never been my style."

Barba's smile was distant. "You weren't a frat boy?"

"Who, me?" Carisi set the bottle down, "Nah. I enjoyed college, sure, but not _that_ much. What about you? I can only imagine ragers at Harvard."

"As can I," he said simply, turning back to his paperwork.

Without real purpose, Carisi began to wander his familiar aimless loop, the windowsills, the mantle, the oblong table. The building seemed different at night, the lighting warmer, the silence more encompassing. There were no distant bleating phones, no shuffle in the hallways.

"I dunno, did you wanna just order in?" he asked, examining some small floral arrangement perched on the mantle, wondering who could have put it there.

"Can I ask you something Carisi?"

He turned back at the direct address to find Barba leaning back in his chair, once again having abandoned whatever he'd been working on.

"You just did,” he quipped, but Barba's smile in response was weak, and it suddenly felt a childish thing to have said. He walked back toward the desk, "Yeah, shoot."

"What is...this?" It was strange to see him, a guy who had likely never thought to himself that he could have said something better in a moment, appear to struggle with words.

"What?"

He exhaled a slow sigh before trying again. "Where do you see this going?"

"You mean like," he gestured between the two of them and Barba nodded. "I thought you were the one that said we'll figure it out."

"So I did," Barba said. "I guess I'm saying that this is the part where we do."

Carisi felt as though he was standing in a spotlight suddenly, an actor who'd forgotten his lines. "Oh. Uh, okay."

"You mentioned the lieutenant's return and I realize that I'd be remiss if I continued pursuing this," he echoed Carisi's gesture, "in secret after pointing out to her the potential dangers in her doing the same. After threatening her job for doing as much -- and to be clear, I don't regret that. I'd do it again--"

"So wait... this is a sendoff?"

"It's the opposite."

He frowned. "I don't follow."

"We need to disclose if we're going to continue this. I am, at minimum, too old to be made someone's secret."

Carisi dropped seamlessly into one of the facing chairs. It all made logical sense, and if things were different he'd be over the moon with the potential of it, the fact that a feeling he'd felt so deeply was reciprocated in earnest, and seriously enough to warrant documentation. But disclosing made it real, and he was suddenly faced with the ugliest part of himself that had been allowing this to exist in a fantasy. No one knew about it, and therefore it didn't exist when it didn't need to. That act of inking it into reality would be to admit things about himself that he'd been happy enough to deny.

"I-- so what you're saying is we either tell everyone or we... stop?"

Barba narrowed his eyes, "We're not-- it doesn't require skywriting, so no. It's just a document. Protocol. Sets the precedent for when our work together would create a conflict of interest. It protects--"

"I know what it is," he snapped, then rubbed his tight jaw. "I'm just... it's just, I'm not--"

Barba supplied, "ready," a question, as Carisi finished: "gay."

The word shattered into a thousand pieces, almost audible in its resulting crack and hiss. Carisi couldn't bear to lift his eyes from his own feet where they'd landed in its wake.

"Oh," Barba said finally. It was a small, pointed word. "Well. I guess... there's the answer."

He tried to say something in reply but all that came was a strangled sound. He wanted nothing more in that moment than for the earth to swallow him whole, wanted any other combination of words to have escaped his lips before that single utterance.

"If that's it then," Barba's voice was dark, clipped, "I think you can see yourself out."

Carisi couldn’t argue that. There was nothing that could undo what he'd just cemented into reality. He pushed himself up from the chair, too much a coward in the moment to chance eye contact, to accept the weight of his own words, the sharp splinters of them scattered across the desk. The quiet click of the door behind him punctuated his departure, and he thought then of the Monsignor's words in that same doorway: a prophecy, a curse, a chill blossoming beneath his sternum.


	20. Chapter 20

Going home was not an option. He imagined that lonely stretch of subway, that lumpy couch alone with his thoughts. Even worse would be the narrow bed, the cinematic replay of all the wrong he had just done. Getting piss drunk at some anonymous bar and blending into the night crowd was too cliché, and irresponsible besides. Greeting the reinstated lieutenant with all the markings of a rough evening would undo so much of that goodwill he had been carefully building.

He passed a few bars on the winding walk he took to clear his head and gave it earnest thought anyway; all those granite counters dotted with regular folks, easy trivial conversation, blaring jukeboxes and sports commentary. Mostly, it was the promise held in foamy bottles to eventually loosen that tight cord wrapped around his chest, to erase the overwhelming guilt.

He thought of Rollins then, his sister, their sleeping babies, what a mess he would be on their doorsteps. He thought of the growing list for confessional when he could convince himself to brave the velvet curtain. He thought of all the girls with the sad eyes in those photographs that he had been years too late to save.

Finally he settled on heading back to the station, spending the night in the bunks. It gave him both a comfortable distance from his own empty apartment, and the chance to greet the lieutenant first thing when she arrived. This would be a calculated move to make sure she put him headfirst into a case that could consume him.

Rollins would give him shit for the decision of course; she always noticed the small details, the deep set wrinkles in the clothes he kept in his locker, the starchy scent of the standard-issue sheets that never really left you throughout the day. He was beyond caring; no one could touch the shit he was giving himself.

It was entirely unsurprising that even there, tucked into a sterile bunk among the evening station traffic, sleep eluded him. The low bustle of the evening shift served as distracting white noise, but his thoughts always circled back to the wreckage of the week, and worse, what was sure to come.

To say he had burned a significant bridge in his dealings that evening was an understatement. Firebombed, more like. A regular nuclear detonation. Worse still, the effects likely rippled out from there, dooming any law career he would have considered in the borough, probably the city, maybe even the state.

His thoughts began to shift as the night grew long, sleepless anxiety infusing them with a manic energy as he tossed and turned in the blue-black glow. He began to think less about what casework he would throw himself into in the coming days, and more about how he would pose to the lieutenant his request to transfer. They were perpetually short staffed, and some might say he had finally earned his place in their squad, sure, but there was no possible way for him to come through this blunder unscathed. He had grown accustomed to moving precincts; it wouldn't be the worst solution.

Even if Barba could separate their personal dealings from professional ones, Carisi had showed himself to be a callous opportunist at best, at worst a coward through and through. He could never live that down. Those assurances lavished on him by Barba and Rollins in the previous days, both were so totally misguided. It was never his earnest beliefs that defined him, his character; it was his fear of the possible world beyond those beliefs.

Soon the station began to hum with sounds of shifts changing, overnighters packing it in for the evening. He had a few fitful bouts of sleep between turning it over in his mind, but acknowledging that no more was likely in his future, he dragged himself out of bed. The clothing in his locker felt musty, those dark wrinkles apparent no matter how hard he stretched at the fabric. He washed up the best he could in the bathroom, and wound up passable enough to greet the day.

None of the rest of his squad had arrived yet by the time he entered the bullpen, a small mercy that he could have a first coffee without questions about his appearance. But he did see the lieutenant’s door was open, and curiosity won out. He poked his head in the door, and was instantly comforted by the familiar sight of Benson in her reading glasses, running a long finger down the bridge of her nose as she studied something spread on her desk. Early sunlight filtered in thin orange slats across her office, framing her, and he had a moment to watch her before she noticed his presence.

 “Carisi, hey there,” she said warmly, removing her glasses as she addressed him.

 “Welcome back, lieu.” He crossed into the office, “We missed ya.”

 “I missed this,” she said, gesturing around the office. “You’re here early on a Sunday, I hope it’s not on my behalf.”

 “Nah,” he waved a hand, “I got caught up last night. It was easier to just stay here.” She gave him a curious look, and he fought the urge to divulge. “You know, with all the indictments, the paperwork has been a beast. I just wanted to get it over with, put it behind me.”

 “I can imagine it's been tough for you. And Barba, he must have had his hands full.”

 “He did. Still does, I think.” He felt sick thinking of leaving Barba sitting at his desk last night, of the daunting task laid before him now in letting the lieutenant know his hopes to transfer. He struggled with how to frame it, but no matter how careful his wording he wouldn’t be able to predict whether Barba would fill her in regardless.

 She hummed thoughtfully, replacing her glasses on her face and rustling through the papers on her desk. “So I see we picked up a rape over near Inwood?”

 “Yeah," he lowered himself onto her couch. "And we connected it to one from a week ago or so in the same area that had a similar MO. But with no DNA, no real description of the assailant to go on--.”

 “It’s tough,” she finished his sentence. “We’ve been looking into a local homeless shelter?”

 “Yeah, see, the vic from a week ago mentioned it in her original report--”

“And no one checked it out then?”

 “Not initially, no. The officers thought it was unlikely given the circumstances. Thought she might have been… well… biased.”

She squinted. “Hm. So have we reached out to the shelter administration? Checked around to see what kind of schedule they run?”

 “Fin’s been canvassing the neighborhood this week, watching how the shelter residents interact with locals and interviewing around. Rollins has been pulling their records, looking for guys who had history of a similar MO. You saw that they have a wing for guys on the registry, right?”

Benson peered over her glasses, “Well that’s certainly convenient. And how about you, Carisi?”

 He took a hard swallow. It wouldn’t be easy to broach the transfer, and yet, when else could he? Her set up was perfect.

 “They took lead since I was still tied up with the whole… with everything else. I haven’t had a chance to contribute much, but lieu--”

“You did good work, Carisi. Getting Eugene to reveal what he did, to effectively dismantle the entire ring, that took a lot of skill. Tucker was sure that nothing could compel him at that point.”

The praise blossomed deep in his hollow chest. “Nah,” he began, but didn’t know how to further downplay the act. “He had some humanity left.”

“That’s... surprising, given Tucker's impression.”

He shrugged.

“Well it was solid work. You have a knack for getting to people that others might consider lost causes.”

He smiled. It was a nice sentiment, but hard to accept compliments knowing what he knew.

“Anyway," she continued, collecting papers on her desk into a neat stack, "I think we should take a closer look at some of these shelter residents, see if there are any that Rollins has identified as having a similar history.”

A spark. There in her simple sentence lay an answer to his dilemma. No, not the answer entirely, but a stopgap; something that gave him time to lay the groundwork for a seamless transfer.

“What if I went UC?” She began to protest the suggestion and he stood up, approached her desk, “Hear me out. You just said I have a knack for getting to lost causes. So what if I went in as a resident? Not long-term, but long enough to get some of the chatter, learn their habits and schedules. See who likes watching the girls in the neighborhood. See if anyone likes to brag.”

She frowned, appearing unconvinced.

 “Rollins and Fin took lead so I’ve never been to the neighborhood. I interviewed the vic at her job, nowhere near there. They wouldn’t know me from Adam.”

“And you’re sure you want to do something like this? I know that the last few weeks have been complicated, Carisi, I want to make sure that this is a wise decision for you.”

If she knew this was a decision made on 45 minutes of sleep and deep in the fresh wound of heartbreak, she would have stonewalled him. She would have been right to.

But she didn’t know any of that, and so he continued. “Come on. It’s the best way we can get access to ‘em without making it known that the police are circling. Our guy gets spooked, maybe he cools off for a bit, maybe he moves to another location and starts over. Our vics don’t get justice.”

“You don’t have to convince me of that.” She removed her glasses once more and studied him deeply. She read suspects in interrogation rooms for close to two decades, he knew she read him just as easily. He attempted a neutral expression, but if she could see beyond it she didn’t care.

“We’ll need to move quickly then. How soon can you be ready to be booked?”

“Right away,” he said, then amended, “I’d need to take care of a couple things, but I could be ready in a few hours.”

“If you’re sure that you want to do this--”

“I am,” he said, resolute, placing his palms on her desk. “I want to.”

“Then I’ll call the shelter and arrange for your arrival this afternoon.”

\---

The morning mist clung to the streets as he walked. He messaged Bella to ask her to check his mail in a few days if she didn’t hear from him in the interim.

“police stuff?” she'd written back, and when he confirmed, she’d sent: “stay safe big bro.” A few minutes later he received a short video clip from her. His niece laid out on her dressing table, her fat-cheeked smile glowing as his sister cooed to her. “Give your Uncle a big smile,” Bella had said from behind the camera, “Tell him you love him.” He replayed it a few times, committed it to memory.

He looked to Barba’s message chain there, the second in his recent list. He considered writing some sort of apology, but deep down he knew it was too personal. There was too much to say for it to be conveyed in such a small, trivial manner, and further, one used for work communication.

He arrived to the chapel early, the building barely come to life with its morning staff preparing for Mass. He took advantage of the calm, kneeling alone in a pew to pray the Rosary, each weathered bead between his fingers bringing him further into focus.

When that morning’s Mass had concluded, when the congregants had been bid to go out into the world full of God’s grace, Carisi remained in his pew, steeped in his quiet reverie. Standing would break the seal on the morning, would send him plummeting into his new persona, and so he drank in the final moments of solitude, those moments alone with his weary soul.

He meditated on the Psalm from the morning’s homily, letting Father McDonnell's words wash over him. “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted," he had said. "Those whose spirits have been crushed. But know that the Lord protects all his bones, not one of them will be broken. No one who takes refuge in Him will be condemned.”

\---

When he arrived back at the station after Mass, Rollins was quick to accost him in the entryway, crowding him against the wall as she spoke. “What is this I’m hearing about you going under at the shelter?”

He held up his hands, “It’s a good shot at getting a handle on our perp without spooking him.”

“Yeah and it’s also a good way to get yourself killed, Carisi. What the hell are you thinking?”

“I’ll be fine.” He squeezed around her, but she paced him through the room.

“Well when are you going? Did you have enough time to tell your new girlfriend you’re leaving town?”

Of course, how could he forget his fictional girlfriend? “We broke up,” he said, the words razor-sharp.

“Carisi,” Fin had just returned from the break room, “That’s a hell of a thing you’re doing.” He tipped his coffee cup with a nod.

Carisi waved a hand dismissively, “It’ll just be for a few days. I’m betting if our guy is there he’s a bragger. Someone who gets away with a couple of ‘em cleanly? He’s gotta be telling someone. That or planning the next one.”

“If anyone could do it, it’d be you,” Fin said, shooting a glance to Rollins who was too caught up in her disbelief to receive it.

“Well I think it’s a dumb move,” Rollins said. “And I think you’re dumb for going along with it.”

He tried for an even tone in response, but he couldn't disguise the wounding. “It was my idea, so thanks. Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

She threw her hands up with a huff before stalking out of the room. Fin gave him a flat sort of smile, a commiserating look.

“Apparently she’s in a mood,” Carisi said.

“She’ll survive,” Fin replied. “Anyway, Liv wanted to see you when you got back.”

Inside the lieutenant’s office, Carisi saw a pile of clothing laid out across her couch.

“You’re back,” she said from behind her desk. “Are you sure you're still on board?”

“I am.”

She frowned. “Alright. We pulled some clothing options for you, they’re clean enough despite appearances. See what works. When you’re ready, I’ll have Fin book you, confirm the details, and take you down there.”

Carisi rifled through the pile of grubby clothing, picking out a few pieces that seemed long enough to fit his wiry frame. Satisfied, he turned to leave, but Benson bid him to wait a moment. She came out from behind her desk. "Carisi, you know that we can bail you out if things get rough."

"Sure, lieu, I know the drill."

"And if it becomes clear that there's nothing being gained from your operation, we're pulling you."

"I got it, alright?" He stepped in close, "Look, I'll do my best, keep it clean and simple, and I'll get out if I have to. Okay?"

She bit her lip. "Alright. We'll pull you out regardless in a few days to get an update. Please, be safe."

"Not a prob, lieu." He sensed that she was a few steps away from convincing herself it wasn't the best option, and so he left before she could.

He changed into his new set of clothing in the locker room, and coupled with his lack of sleep and hair gel, the changeover from detective to homeless was easy. Framed in the tall mirror hung from the cinderblock wall, half fogged with years of showers, he assessed his look. His eyes were laden with their dark circles, his cheeks dusted with a light smattering of stubble. The sight of it all, the sum of the pieces together, was unsettling. It was as though someone had turned him inside out. He tried his voice a few times, pitchy, gruff, slightly removed from his normal cadence.

He pushed at his unruly tufts of hair, more silvered than he remembered, watching the mirror echo his movements like he were regarding someone else entirely. As he examined the transformation he could still see beneath the layers of grit and sweat, the loose folds cotton, those persistent shades of himself.

"Smitty," he said to his reflection. It was a name close enough that he wouldn't break character easily, yet just far enough to comfortably leave Sonny's mess at the station. Catholics never get rid of stuff, he thought, they just bury it.

“Sonny,” he said, softer, bidding a brief farewell to that dumb dog always chasing after danger. That hollow, lovesick vessel. That coward seeking penance. That broken bone of God.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your continued support!
> 
> If you wanna be a tumblr friend: [oh-little-owl](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com). 
> 
> If you're interested, the referenced Psalm is [Psalm 34:18-20](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+34).
> 
> A note: I originally ended this story here, saying that: "since I've ended here on a bummer, I will say that I have plans for a happyish ending to the series as a whole." 
> 
> When I first envisioned this fic, it was to explain to myself Sonny's mindset in jumping straight into the UC work from the Catholic Church case. By SVU's timeline logic, he's the new guy at the shelter within a day of arresting Akintola (which, wow) and Rollins spends half the episode concerned for his emotional well-being. 
> 
> I took off the completed tag for now. I originally planned the next part in a different story/perspective within this series, so either that will happen, or this will continue.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still alive :) I appreciate everyone who has read along and commented <3  
> Sorta beta'd, so apologies for anything missed.

**One Month Later**

 

He thought, at first, that it had been the grumbling snore of his shelter roommate that had woken him so suddenly. It was a low sound that startled him awake, his eyes struggling to adjust to the emptiness that slowly faded into the familiar topography. Relief flooded his senses as he realized that he was in his own bedroom. Home, and not in that musty wood-paneled room among the orchestral groans and whines of a dozen aging men.

His own bed had never felt quite like a luxury until he had spent a week in a stiff cot, pointy springs playing his spine like a xylophone, his feet always dangling cold over the edge. His apartment, at its core a well-worn track from door to bed and back again, it never felt as much like a home as when he came back to it. He'd found himself overwhelmed by its familiarity, but mostly by his privacy within its walls.

But the sound that woke him continued at the edge of his consciousness, and Carisi realized it was his buzzing phone. He fumbled around the small cluttered table beside his bed to find that Siri had a morning notification for him.

**Reminder for April 15th: Results!**

He groaned, kicking the knotted sheets from his long legs. “Hey Siri," he croaked, then cleared the sleep from his voice. "Is it going to rain today?”

“It doesn’t look like it will rain today," the phone replied, charting the projected temperature fluctuations on screen.

“Well, that’s something at least,” he said to himself as he locked the phone and set to peeling himself from bed.

His own bed.

If nothing else, the stay at the shelter had cured him of his bout of sleeping on the couch.

Cataloging the details of his face in the foggy bathroom mirror as he shaved that morning, he thought of how different he'd looked painted with the grit and grime of Smitty, the acute sadness he’d needed to plumb to bring the man to life. Once it was over, he buried Smitty somewhere deep inside, among those truths he couldn’t bear to parse through. Sometimes he’d still catch shades of that unkempt vision in the periphery, in his reflection in the two-way mirror watching interrogations, always a quick and unsettling reminder.

Rollins had been more affected by his undercover stint than he'd have imagined her to be, and she’d implemented a standing dinner night in the weeks that followed the assignment. Between that constant, and a few outings with her and the Lieu and their kids, it had taken a lot of the sting out of his day-to-day. It had given him less time to wallow in the memory of Cara and Sister Nina, the wake of everything with Barba.

Moreover, a couple of hard-won victories under his belt had all but convinced him to drop his initial plans to transfer. He was happy enough here after all those moves between precincts, far from the hazing and bullying of the precincts he’d occupied before. He could bury whatever lingered beneath good solves and camaraderie.

Besides, really, once he got those results today, who knew what the future held.

\---

Rollins sat at the breakroom table leafing through a file when Carisi dropped in with his cold coffee, ready for its mid-afternoon nuke. They were both left behind at the precinct, lieu having taken Fin and Dodds to brief Barba on the case they'd caught from Fin’s son that morning. It was the beginnings of something: a client of Ken’s who alleged that a Rikers C.O. had raped her, that it had been an ongoing thing inside and had bled into her life outside, an untenable situation.

It could be nothing, sure; some sort of extortion wouldn’t be a stretch for a former inmate, a felon. It could be the tip of an iceberg, though, like Sister Nina's iceberg, and the familiar sense of dread at the promise of what they could uncover, it had given him the jitters.

"So," Rollins said as she flipped over a few pages, "what are you gonna do to celebrate? Any big plans? Barring, you know," she waved a hand towards the doorway, "whatever this is."

"Ah, I dunno." He watched his mug spin its slow orbit in the microwave. "Some classmates were talking about getting celebratory drinks tonight. Guess it depends on what lieu and them come back with."

"That sounds like fun." She gave him a thoughtful look, "You should go. Just… don't let them convince you to put in any applications."

"Nah, that's not really on my radar right now." The microwave beeped and he retrieved his coffee.

"Good," she turned back to her papers, adding: "I kinda figured."

"What's that mean?"

"Oh, I don't know," her tone was light, as though it were a joke they were both in on, "Seems like you moved outta the DA's office." He squinted, and she continued, hitching a shoulder, "You know, like you don't volunteer to take every scrap of paperwork over there anymore, never invent lame excuses. Hell, in the old days you probably would have conned Fin out of his own spot on today's trip. I thought... I dunno, you were maybe over the lawyer life."

It was true that since his return from the shelter Carisi had stopped playing the eager volunteer when paperwork needed to be delivered to Barba, a conscious decision he'd made to remain scarce. It was cowardly perhaps, but he reasoned it was easier for all involved.

He hadn't realized that his choice had been so obvious, however, and even worse that it had resonated with others enough to warrant mention. The thought that it had been subject of speculation creeped a cool tendril of worry down his neck.

"Hey, I've been busy," Carisi offered. With his best attempt at a self-deprecating smile, he added, "Besides, I'm giving Barba a break from my mug."

The few times he had been saddled with the task of running paperwork, out of necessity and not wanting to protest too much, he'd convince himself that he would use the opportunity to clear the air. And on each trip he’d lost his nerve within sight of the building, instead leaving the papers with Carmen and citing a heavy workload with no time to spare. 

He wasn't afraid of backlash anymore; not entirely. There had been no sign of animosity during the few cases they'd worked on together since their... whatever had happened between them. But his relief in that, in their apparent professionalism, was short lived. He hadn’t anticipated how the man’s clear ambivalence toward him would wound him to the core.

It wasn't that they'd gone back to square one this time; instead, they'd gone back to a place beyond recognition, one where Barba barely acknowledged him in a room. The feeling was not unlike watching the sun drift behind a cloud. Left in that cold shadow, he found himself wanting for the warmth.

Today more than most he felt the loss, an ache tight in his sternum, because how often he'd imagined this, the chance to present this achievement proudly, his passing the bar. Now, after how they’d left things, it likely wouldn't warrant acknowledgement.

Back at his desk with his lukewarm coffee, he buried the hurt in his ever-present pile of paperwork until the lieutenant returned with news: they'd be spending the next morning, their Saturday, investigating COs in Rikers. Quietly, she'd stressed, as they'd be framing it as an investigation of a crime ring being run between inmates. They’d need to be immaculate in their investigation not to tip off the COs, the fear being that they circle the wagons.

The prospect of it, all it would require of him at an early hour, it put a damper on his plans to properly celebrate with his classmates. It didn't mute them entirely, though, as he decided for his own good that he'd spend an hour or two with a hard limit. He deserved a bit of celebration for his troubles, and what's more, a bit of social interaction outside of the tight circle of his colleagues.

\---

Jonas, a fellow classmate, had chosen this place, some basement bar in Alphabet City with a hipster vibe. It seemed a bit more like a “woohoo college” bar than a "passed the Bar" bar, but even so, Carisi found himself a bit thrilled at getting so far out of his daily routine. The concrete steps down from the street were steep and narrow and Carisi thought about drunks that had to have injured themselves in late night attempts to navigate them.

Once inside, engulfed in the sound of pulsing music and animated conversations, all those faces alight in beams of neon that cut through the darkness, he felt out of place. He’d taken the time to dress casually: a hoodie thrown over a nice shirt and dark jeans, but he still felt immeasurably older than everyone there, that sea of plaid and tight denim and colorful tattoos. He’d begun to feel it more as the years went by, a nagging sense of responsibility for everyone in a crowd, their collective safety. He instinctively cataloged the exits as he cut through them, toward the sound of someone, somewhere, calling out a rough, "Sonny!"

Finally he found Jonas, a burly guy with a mop of dark hair, waving from where he was holding down a tall table toward the back corner of the room. He was crowding around it with more their classmates than could logically fit. A few had anchored themselves with an elbow or forearm, stretched out sideways like spokes from a wheel. Others squeezed in where they could, pressing tight against each other.

"Jonas!" Carisi grabbed his hand in a shake that turned into a tight hug, bumping into others in the process. "Congrats, man!"

"Congrats to you, buddy. We finally did it!" He toasted to the table with his plastic cup, and cheers rang out as others lifted theirs in response, echoing the sentiment. He never got to spend much time with these guys outside of the classroom, but he got the impression from the natural clustering that a lot of them had over the years.

"So, I gotta ask, why'd you pick... this place?" Carisi nodded toward the plastic cup, as though it were an indication of something.

"Dollar beers, my friend."

Carisi laughed. "I mean, sure, that was a thing when I was twenty..."

"Well some of us aren't making the big bucks just yet," he replied, and his tone was markedly less jovial. Jonas had a kind of bootstraps upbringing from the bits of his story that Carisi had gotten to know over the course of their acquaintance. He came off pretty bitter about it, especially amongst their classmates, a few of whom made no secret of the fact that they were comfortably paying for their degrees outright.

"True. Nah, that's fair." Carisi lifted his palms, "Hey, let me get the next round."

"Next round on Sonny!" Jonas lifted his cup a second time, and the same cheer erupted throughout their table.

An indeterminate amount of dollar-beers later, one group sing-along to the only-partially-ironic jukebox selection _Born in the U.S.A._ , and after much mutual congratulating amongst his classmates, commiseration over all the lectures they suffered through, Carisi felt a renewed sense of calm. The dollar beers, how quickly they added up to more than the sum of their parts, they were perhaps to blame for his next move.

In a quieter moment, as much of the table was caught up in small discussions, Carisi took to fiddling with his phone; and after a few moments of fiddling, he figured, what better time to apologize for misdeeds than when warm off comradery and cheap revelry. He typed a few attempts at apologies to Barba, but none seemed to convey what he wanted. Instead, he simply wrote, "i passed the bar," and before he could think better of it, he pressed send.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, rereading the message, imagining its reception, Barba rolling his eyes in disgust. An apology would probably have been a better start. He shoved the phone in his pocket and resolved not to poke at the embers again, lest he get well and truly burned.

As he attempted to wade back into the conversation Jonas was having with a fellow classmate, he felt his pocket buzz. He checked his watch, and the notification there caught the air in his lungs.

"I gotta take this," he signaled to Jonas, pulling his phone from his pocket as he squeezed out from the tight confines of the table.

It was not a large room to traverse, would have been a quick exit but for the throngs of patrons that impeded his progress. He answered the phone a moment before he hit the street so he wouldn’t miss the call.

"Hey, one sec," he said, cupping his hand over the phone as he pushed through. When he got outside into the brisk evening, the sudden quiet of the avenue, he said, "Hey okay, sorry it was loud in there."

"I take it you're celebrating?" Barba sounded tired on the other line.

Carisi dipped into the shallows of a nearby alley, leaning against a cold wall as he spoke. "Some classmates were having a drink, yeah."

"Well, I figured you were looking for a congratulatory remark, so--”

Carisi winced, "Nah, not-- I mean, that's not--"

"It's alright, detective. Congratulations."

Carisi closed his eyes, internally cursing everything that had led to this moment, for the way he must have come off.

"No, look, Barba, I wanted to say sorry, except… I dunno... it came out like that."

There was a rustling beat on Barba’s end. "Your text was a far cry from an apology."

"I know." The frosty evening air, the conversation, it was immediately sobering.

He continued, "But I wasn't looking for one, so you’re off the hook."

"Yeah, but..." Carisi watched his feet as he toed at the wet cracks in the concrete, "I owe it just the same." The silence on the other end tugged at him, and he began to babble: "You know, things have been weird since, and I screwed things up and I really wanna--"

"Carisi," his voice was suddenly firm, "where are you right now?"

He looked around. "Sparrow’s Hollow. Well, actually, an alley next to the place."

"Don't... not in an alley, alright?” Barba sounded distant, “We're okay. Enjoy your evening."

"We're okay?" he asked. The words had sounded more like placation than fact.

A sigh came from the other line. "Yes. So don't let it take up any more of your time."

"Where are you?"

"Excuse me?" Barba sounded taken aback.

"I was returning the question." The sentence made more sense in Carisi’s head than when he said it, and he started calculating exactly how many dollar-beers he could have possibly consumed in the time since he'd arrived.

"That's... hm. Okay, well it's not exactly relevant to the conversation."

Carisi rubbed the back of his head against the grit of the brick, melting into the satisfying scratch. He began to voice agreement with that assessment when Barba continued.

"I was finishing dinner with a colleague--"

"Shit, I interrupted?" Carisi asked, readying some self-deprecating apology for the intrusion.

"No,” Barba replied. “We had finished."

"Oh." Carisi gathered up his nerve and pushed off the wall to pace the mouth of the alley. "Can I just... I've tried to do this a few times and I don't think I'll have the nerve again."

"Not in an alley."

"Well it's pretty loud in the bar. Can I just--"

"Carisi," Barba cut him off sharply, and a beat passed between them. "Look, if you're insisting…” he trailed into a sigh, “I don’t know. I’ll meet you. For a nightcap. The air will be cleared and we can continue to maintain a professional relationship. And I won’t get another phone call from an alleyway. Okay?"

Carisi chewed on his lip, half-tempted to point out that it was Barba who had initiated the phone call, but decided not to chance it. "Yeah, no that works. That's perfect. Wait.” If he’d felt out of place amidst the twenty-somethings and cheap beer, he couldn’t imagine inviting Barba in a crisp suit, fresh off some high-powered dinner, to a place like this.

“Hm?”

“Did you want to go somewhere in particular? This place is kinda--”

Barba cut in, “I won’t intrude on your celebration. The Dakota is near enough to my place, if you remember it. I can be there in a half hour or so.”

“Perfect,” Carisi said. “I’ll pay my tab and head over.”

"I'll be seeing you."

Carisi stood a moment more in the alley, watching as the phone call faded from the screen. He wasn’t sure exactly what he’d wrought for his evening, but riding the high of the victory inherent in his passing score, the possibilities it opened for him, he figured it’d work out somehow.

Back inside, Carisi bought Jonas and their classmates off with a parting round and an excuse about the siren call of police work; luckily, no one followed him to watch him catch an Uber uptown. Too, no one witnessed the self-fulfilling prophecy that was Carisi's less-than-graceful trip over one of the deep-cut stairs on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping to wrap this guy up soon (within the next two or three chapters, one of which is almost ready). As always, you can reliably find me on my [tumblr](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com/).


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my perpetual beta, who tells me where I should add "those descriptive pauses that you like to do." Apologies for anything missed. 
> 
> There's a bit of discussion in this chapter regarding the incident in the chapter tagged for internalized homophobia, and as always it's my hope that I'm doing this part of the story justice.

It seemed a lifetime ago that Carisi had first crossed the threshold of The Dakota with its elegantly dim lighting that glittered along its granite bar-top. The tall tables inside were dotted with a caliber of patronage starkly contrasting the college dive bar he had just left. Still in his denim and worn hoodie, Carisi now felt an entirely different sense of being out-of-place.

Barba was back a ways, warming a stool, and thoroughly engrossed in something on his Blackberry. A squat glass sat could be seen within a comfortable distance, and Carisi wondered if the man made a habit of this place, this look.

He thought back to the night he secured warrants from for the priests’ financials, his heart pumping as he approached Barba outside of work for the first time in much the same sort of scene. He’d felt propelled in that moment by some invisible force: the mystery of it all, or maybe more, the temptation of the possibilities that lay ahead. How the night had ended with his cheeks burning, whiskey flush and the scratch of stubble.

In the present, Barba's tired expression softened slightly in greeting before a mask lowered again. Carisi was tired too; the Uber ride and the night’s chill had been enough to take the edge off his buzz, and in its place he’d begun to feel the weight of the week. Still, he gave a smile as he approached, an attempt to assuage the uneasy nature of their meeting tonight, the first time they’d been alone together since he’d made a mess of things.

“Hey counselor,” he said, with a sudden compulsion to shove his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie. He wasn’t sure if he was meant to join, or just say his piece and leave; he prepared for the latter.

“Detective,” Barba replied. “Sit?” He nodded expectantly to the open stool beside him.

“Ah, yeah, sure.” Carisi loosed his hands from the pocket and slid onto the stool, awkward in his attempt to keep his long limbs contained in the process. “Thanks for seein’ me.”

“I’d suggest a drink, but I get the feeling you’ve gotten an impressive head start.”

Carisi huffed a laugh, feeling oddly more relaxed by the jab and how Barba wasted no time in cutting a guy down to size. "When they're a dollar a piece, you can kinda lose track easy," he said.

“Loud bar and cheap beer? Well that explains the get-up.” Barba’s smile was sly, brief, drowned in his drink.

“Ha. Thanks.” Carisi flagged the bartender, a young woman with thick glasses, and said, “I’ll have what he’s having.” Then, to Barba: “One of my classmates picked the place out. It wasn’t so bad. Nice to get out of the routine of things.”

The bartender placed his drink on a small diamond napkin and set it in place in front of him.

“Well, congratulations detective.” Barba clinked his glass against Carisi’s. “Or should I say counselor?”

“No. Well, not yet at least," Carisi said. "Rollins, she threatened bodily harm if I put in any applications tonight.”

He watched as reflections rippled in his fresh glass, considering how best to segue into the real topic at hand. The mood between them seemed warmer than he’d anticipated, and yet it was still such a tenuous thing.

He rubbed at his mouth before he spoke, a nervous tic. "Anyway, like I said, I just wanted to apologize. To you. In person. I didn't mean... well. I was in a tough space when I..." He trailed off and took a dry swallow. Carisi had replayed the moment so many times in those sleepless nights at the shelter, endlessly dissecting how he’d let his fear of the unknown win out when push came to shove.  "Truth is I was...just overwhelmed--"

Barba lifted a palm. "Alright, I want to stop you for a moment. Look, I appreciate your apology, I do. But to be fair, I owe you one myself. It's actually why I invited you."

"Huh? How's that?" Of all the ways he had imagined this moment would go, Carisi had never considered this possibility.

Barba seemed to choose his next words carefully as he ran the pad of a finger around the lip of his glass. "I wasn't entirely fair to you." He blew a sigh through his nose, and glanced toward his Blackberry where it lay on the bar. “I was hasty. For a lot of reasons, personal reasons, and it wasn’t—“

"Nah, really, I choked," Carisi cut in as shame colored his cheeks.

"Carisi, look. For you to have disclosed at that moment would have required... an understanding on your part, one that you haven’t quite come to yet. Am I right?"

At any other time, Carisi would have laughed at the turn of phrase being leveled at him, when he was so often found asking it of Barba. "Yeah," his voice was almost a whisper. He took a sip of his own drink then, worried that without it he’d lose his voice entirely to the muscles tightening in his throat.

Barba continued: "And that's… it's fine. It’s okay. I was wrong to... well, I'm sorry for applying pressure in a delicate time. It wasn't—would never be my intent, to force someone’s hand.”

Carisi felt flushed, part embarrassment, part frustration at all the things he wanted to say in that moment that were beyond his ability to articulate. Suddenly sweltering in the heat of the crowded place, the shame he wore, the liquor he’d drank, he needed to escape the hoodie.

“One sec.” He slid off his stool and, in a few less-than-graceful motions, pulled the jacket over his head. He straightened his shirt from where it rode up in the process and laid the jacket over his stool to sit on.

Catching a strange expression on Barba’s face, Carisi explained, “Sorry, it was getting hot. I should’ve worn something else. I didn’t realize--”

Barba furrowed his brow and gestured, “What’s the matter with your back?”

“Huh?” Once returned to his seat, Carisi pressed a palm to his lower back and felt the familiar dull twinge. “Oh, that?” He rolled the side of his shirt up slightly, exposing the once-purple blossoming, now faded to a more a sickly yellow-grey splotch with the time that had passed since he earned it. He'd always bruised vibrantly, viciously, a curse of fair skin. The dim lighting did it no favors, casting it in starker contrast. "Yeah that... was my close call with a baseball bat. Back when I was at the shelter."

Barba grimaced.

"Guy got me good with a sucker punch,” he continued. “He had a bat though, so it could have been worse. You heard about that, yeah?” Carisi righted his shirt once more. “I figured Rollins had damn near alerted the press."

"It seems I missed that news brief.” It was a jab, but Barba’s expression betrayed deeper concern.

Carisi waved a hand dismissively. "Nah, well, it wasn’t a big deal really, not as much as she made of it anyway. One of the vics, her dad and a couple of his goons jumped me while I was undercover there. Thought they were avenging her suffering, but of course, Murphy’s Law, they managed to zero in on the only cop in the place.”

Barba looked pointedly to his own glass and Carisi could see the shadow of fine muscles working in his jaw.

"Did you have it looked at?” Barba asked. “At the time, I mean."

"Healthcare unfortunately was not one of the many fine amenities at the Spuyten Duyvil shelter." 

Barba looked no less grim for the joke, and so Carisi felt compelled to further rationalize: "But seriously, it was just a well-placed punch on a guy who bruises easy. Like I said, could’ve been worse. Hell, I've had worse."

Barba reached for his glass and summarily drained the last sliver. "What was it like in the shelter?” he asked. “Aside from the street fights."

Carisi chuckled. "Well, fortunately that was my only street fight. But yeah, I guess I never got to tell you about any of that. I mean, it was what you'd expect. Lots of creeps -- thought they were God's gift to women, so, not real great company most of ‘em. Don't even get me started on my roommate.” He leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial sort of whisper, “Guy had a theory that women are biologically wired to want to destroy powerful men."

"Enlightened," Barba said, a brief glimmer of amusement passing over his face.

"Yeah, and get this,” Carisi gestured, tapping the bar-top with the side of his hand, “ _he_ was the powerful guy in that scenario.”

Barba rolled his eyes.

Carisi leaned back out of Barba’s space and watched a woman squeeze by them on her way toward the restrooms. He was transfixed by the way the lighting played off her sequined top, how it shimmered like an oil spill as she walked. Once she was out of sight, he realized he’d trailed off, and that Barba had been watching him, appearing to have been waiting for more.

“Anyway, so, food was lousy too. Mostly meatloaf. I, uh, learned a lot about the art of dominoes I guess. I used to play with my grandma as a kid, but that was what, thirty years ago? So I was a bit rusty. I think I won once. Maybe twice." He squinted, unsure of whether to continue, but Barba met his gaze and seemed interested, or maybe just at a loss for words.

"I mean, there's not a whole lot to tell really,” Carisi continued. “It was a two-fer, we got the shelter’s rapist and his copycat lawyer. Between them they were good for the rapes and the murder of the shelter’s therapist. Real pieces of work, both of 'em. I wondered if you heard much since, well, I noticed you weren't around at the time." Carisi watched for the words to land, the unspoken question beneath the surface, and searched for any hint of its answer on Barba’s face.

If Barba saw the bait Carisi had set to draw out an explanation though, he ignored it, instead asking: "What made you want to go in as a resident?"

Carisi shrugged. "Seemed like a good way to get a read on our guy at the time."

Barba cocked his head, appearing less than satisfied with the reply.

“It’s true,” Carisi said, and at once regretted his defensive tone. “I was just talking to the lieu that morning and she said I’ve got a knack for getting to people that way, so I figured why not. There was a good chance with the apparent MO that he’d be bragging or scheming, and since he seemed to be escalating we didn’t have a lot of time to circle around the answers.”

Barba fixed a gaze on him that Carisi recognized from interrogation rooms, one that bore through any pretenses.

“Liv...she said it was your idea.” It was a stilted sentiment; he appeared to struggle to get the words out. Once he had, they opened a floodgate. "Liv said that she found you at the station that morning. Before anyone else had arrived. That you slept there. That you looked half, well, ready to go. I assumed you went so eagerly because of… the way we left things.”

Carisi’s heart sank fast as he turned the image over in his mind: Barba and the lieutenant clucking over him in his absence; dissecting his choices and appearances, his deeper motivations. Apparently he’d been naïve to think that he hadn’t been a topic of conversation in absentia. What else did she tell him? Or, more, what did he tell her?

He licked his lower lip before leveling his reply: "Here I thought that kind of gossip was beneath you, counselor.”

Barba gave a wry, crooked little smile. It dug under Carisi’s skin, how the expression conceded absolutely nothing. No, he didn’t get to drop all of that and then play coy.

Carisi continued, “And see, I’d assumed you handed off the case to some other ADA at the time because of how we left things. I say _assumed_ because I don’t have your luxury of insider information."

The smile faded from Barba’s face. “She offered the information as part of the investigation,” he said. “I didn’t seek her out to keep tabs on you.” He turned away from Carisi and admired his empty glass for a moment. "You weren't wrong, though” he added softly. “Not entirely, anyway. I did recuse myself once I learned."

"Yeah. Well.” Carisi sighed, chastened by Barba’s change in tone. “I guess… you weren’t wrong either. Not entirely," he echoed.

Barba glanced sidelong. “What was the rest of it then?”

"Mostly I needed a good, clean solve after everything with Sister Nina, all the circles the priests ran me in.” Carisi waved a hand as his tone sharpened, as he struggled to articulate something he’d heretofore been entirely unable to put in words. “I needed to just...to _catch_ one of these fuckers, you know? Cleanly. Figure ‘em out. Prove that I still could."

"Well did you?” Barba asked. “Figure them out, I mean."

“Maybe? Maybe.” He lost some of the fire in his voice to the ebb and flow of his weariness. “I dunno. I had a gut feeling, but I didn’t always follow it. Rollins, she said there's no why in these things, no logic--"

Barba cut in, "And there often isn't."

"Sure, but, I just...I don’t know.” Carisi plunged his hand into his hair, raking through the remnants of the day’s gel. “I guess it’s more that I lost a lot of the ability to trust myself. My instincts. And I needed to fix that somehow.”

“By willingly endangering your life?” Barba had a sudden edge to his voice that Carisi felt was entirely unearned.

He narrowed his eyes. “’Scuse me?”

“Nothing,” Barba replied. He began to look beyond Carisi, attempting to catch the attention of the bartender, who’d taken up conversation with an older patron at the far end of the bar.

Carisi craned, trying to recapture Barba’s attention. “Look, counselor, I knew what I was doing.”

“I never said you didn’t,” Barba replied, keeping his sights fixed on that distant point.

Carisi couldn’t help talking as much with his hands as he did his voice. “So I was endangering my life?” he asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Barba gave him a look, regarding him as though the question itself were ludicrous. “It means what if one of the _multiple_ violent criminals involved had made you for a cop? What if”—he waved a hand, seeming to search the air for words—“the vigilantes, the ones you _did_ encounter, had better aim? Brought more than a blunt object as part of their attempt to menace? I’m certain that I don’t need to enumerate all the risks--”

Carisi was firm. “No. You don’t. It’s my job. I’ve been doin’ it for a while now.” He’d anticipated a lecture of some sort from Barba, but not about this, not about work. He’d received enough speeches like these from Rollins in the weeks that followed the case, and they always felt tinged with the kind of pity he hated.

“I’m aware.” Barba shifted to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket and began to rifle through it.

Carisi looked from the wallet to his face. “You leavin’?”

“I believe you have an early morning, right?” Barba arched a brow at him before setting a few bills beside his glass. “I don’t want to be responsible for any more trouble on your behalf. Liv won’t appreciate you looking ragged for this operation.”

“Hold up,” Carisi said, grabbing Barba’s arm as he attempted to replace his wallet. “Any _more_ trouble?”

Barba met his gaze, and the answer was written in his dark expression.

Carisi let go of his grip. “You haven’t--”

“Haven’t I, though?” Barba’s smile then was wicked, without any warmth behind it. “I told you this kind of involvement would cause problems.”

Carisi leaned in closer, lowering his voice to practically a growl: “You know that night, the night where we fell asleep on your couch? You know it was the first night I didn’t have nightmares about girls drowning in holy water since finding Cara at that halfway house? Or dreams about my family gettin’ kidnapped and not being able to save them? Nuns with no faces? It was the first sleep I had in weeks that came without a cold sweat.”

Barba’s face softened as Carisi continued, impassioned, “And I’m sorry I freaked out about things between us, I am. I regret that. It was a lot. I was overwhelmed. The priests, all that shit buried in the graveyard... a lot of things I held to be universal truths were challenged in the span of those few weeks. It all just rattled me.”

A set of silverware clattered to the floor from some nearby table, and Carisi became aware of their surroundings, all the shuffling patrons in the periphery, those strangers clinking glasses and murmuring conversations. He wished they were having this discussion anywhere but here, and in that moment Barba seemed to be thinking something along the same lines as he glanced cautiously at tables in their vicinity.

“Look,” Carisi said, shoulders sinking as he spoke. “I took the shelter assignment because I saw an opportunity for a good solve. That’s it.”

“Yes,” Barba said, then cleared his throat. “Alright. You’ve made yourself clear, detective.”

Carisi shifted back into his own space reluctantly, uneasy with where this conversation left them, with how much he’d revealed and how little he’d gotten in return.

Barba traced a small pattern on the bar-top. “In any event,” he began, then clenched his wandering hand in a fist and shook his head, appearing to reconsider whatever he’d planned to say. He tried again: “It pains me to admit this, but I’m not great at this.”

“This?”

“Any of... this.” Barba flattened his palm against the bar-top, his brow knotted, and though he seemed to consider elaborating, he settled on a contemplative sort of silence. Seeing him at a loss for words, a guy so known for his silver tongue, it was always unsettling.

A beat passed before, tentatively, Carisi reached out and covered Barba’s outstretched hand with his own. Barba stiffened visibly at the initiated contact, but much to Carisi’s relief, he did not move away from it. They sat like that for a moment, Barba staring at the bottles on the opposite wall and Carisi watching the muscles play in his neck, reveling in the warm current coursing between them, the way that their hands touching felt like some long-awaited respite.

“I really, um. I liked where things were going,” Carisi said, at once glad for all the courage he’d imbibed before this moment. “I did. Y’know, before. I just needed, well, need to go slower. If it’s… still an option.”

“Right,” Barba said, still facing the bottles before them.

Carisi continued, “I’m… just not ready for skywriting.”

Barba shot him a dark look, but the expression dissolved seamlessly into something wry, almost wistful. “Nor am I.”

Carisi removed his hand and tucked it nervously in his lap. “What I said, back before, I was freaked out--”

“You’re figuring things out,” Barba cut him off, flexing his now-freed hand, fidgeting as though he couldn’t hold it still.

“I am,” Carisi replied. “It’s new. I mean, not totally new. Kinda new.” He looked to his lap and huffed a small laugh. “Last guy I had a thing for was in high school. I just… I dunno. I never really felt like I fit into any specific category.”

“It’s allowed. You don't need to officially register an affiliation.” Barba said, then clucked. “Sorry. It’s been a while since I was in your shoes. Figuring things out, I mean.”

Carisi looked down at the casual sneakers he’d thrown on for the evening he once thought he’d be having. It was almost a distant memory now.

“Yeah, cause I didn’t think I’d ever hear you cop to wearing the same shoes as me,” he said, wiggling a foot free from his stool to illustrate the thought.

Confusion registered first as Barba glanced to the shoe, then dragged up to meet Carisi’s gaze. Barba huffed a small laugh, biting his lower lip and shaking his head, and Carisi felt his heart thudding hard against his ribs. He hadn’t realized how deeply he missed this, their easy back-and-forth, the pride inherent in being the one to crack Barba’s bristly exterior like this, to inspire a genuine smile.

The silence that befell them then seemed to stretch on endlessly, each fidgeting with empty glasses and wallets, eyes wandering their surroundings. Carisi felt he was at the precipice of a question he desperately wanted to ask, but he couldn't conjure the necessary words.

Luckily, Barba slid from his stool and saved him the trouble: “Want to get out of here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for sticking with me :) your (continued) support means the absolute world to me. 
> 
> There is an end in sight. As usual, I may have underestimated the chapters needed to get there (because I can't _not_ elaborate), but I'm really hoping to get this finished before it officially turns a year old (which, btw, how is this two months shy of being a year old? that cannot be right. how am I still working on this?) I even have the next 2ish chapters mostly written and/or in revision, SO. Idk why I feel compelled to use this note section in this fashion, but there you go.
> 
> Also, fun fact, Carisi's "shelter roommate" was a rescued part of an entire chapter I'd written when I thought I was literally going to write through the plot of Sheltered Outcasts too. I was sad to lose all of the character insights I'd mined from a certain subreddit, so his roommate's theory is a remnant of that research. 
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com/) for more SVU ramblings and lots of gifs.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for your continued support <3 
> 
> All the kind words have truly been the lifeblood of this work (alongside my blinding rage at Barba's canon departure).
> 
> Special thanks to my perpetual beta, who thought that was a ridiculous way to title the role, and so it's permanent now.

Carisi shot up with a gasping breath, cold sweat beading at the nape of his neck. His shirt was soaked following the line of his spine, and his legs felt heavy in damp jeans. He scanned the perimeter of the room the best he could in the dark. It was different; off, somehow.

He’d been in the shelter, he thought. He’d been playing dominoes with Richie Caskey, could practically smell the old wool of the guy’s sweater, but the thought of it flooded him with a distant sort of sadness. Why?

As he racked his memory, it hit him like lightning. She was there, too. She’d slid in beside him, silent in her approach. He’d been mesmerized by that inky line of congealed blood, that stroke across the sharp angles of her face.

Sister Nina.

Her cold fingers had dug into his wrist, her eyes blank and staring through him as she’d opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

Carisi’s stomach clenched. He felt for his wrist where she’d grabbed him, and a heavy breath escaped him when he found it unscathed. But where was he now?

As he sat up in the bed, the still air felt cold against his skin where it crept beneath the hem of his shirt.

“Sonny?”

The tender voice, the rustling beside him, it rivaled the shock of the dream. It called him toward the present moment, this unfamiliar territory. His own sheets, he realized, were not as soft as the ones beneath him, and the moon never cast this angle of blue light in his own bedroom.

A sound continued, the rumbling that he realized had woken him from his dream, recognizable now as the vibration of a phone -- his phone. He felt around the nearby nightstand until he found it, swiped the screen with his thumb and pressed it to his ear, an instinctual movement.

“Carisi,” he said, his voice raspy with sleep, and waited for the other line, for the next case to unravel. The phone was silent. He unlocked the screen to look at it, momentarily blinded by its glow in the darkness. 3:44 AM, and no sign of a missed call.

“Relax,” Barba said beside him, shifting the sheets as he rose. “It was my phone. Are you okay?”

Carisi felt warm fingers slip underneath his shirt, and his sleep-tightened muscles loosened at the touch. He melted into the relief of the contact, grounded by the reality of it.

“What's going on?” Barba asked, then cleared his throat.

Carisi shook his head, shook the fragments of the dream from his periphery as he struggled to get his bearings. Barba withdrew his hand and smoothed Carisi’s shirt against his back, and Carisi immediately longed for the touch again; he felt colder without it.

The events of the night began to reconstruct themselves: their drinks at the bar, the apologies, the taxi to Barba's apartment. How they’d retired to the couch with drinks that went untouched, went watery with melted ice; how they’d lost themselves in the excitement of each other’s long-awaited company. They hadn’t made it far before a tipsy sleep won out, Carisi sprawled out on the couch with Barba laid languid on top of him. The memory of it squeezed at his chest, Barba waking him and directing him to his bed, a practice he surely wouldn’t mind repeating often.

“Who was it?” Carisi asked, remembering then the sound that had woken them.

“Who? Oh, the phone?” Barba pressed a kiss into Carisi’s shoulder. “Don't worry about it.”

At any other time Carisi would have pushed for a clearer answer, but the intimacy of the moment  flooded his senses. He turned to face Barba behind him, admiring the puzzle of the man’s exterior lined in the blueish silver of moonlight: the knot of his brow, his slightly-crooked nose, a stray tuft of cowlick sticking towards the sky. Carisi was struck by how small he looked here; delicate, a stark contrast to his larger-than-life courtroom persona.

All imagined iterations of this moment paled in comparison to the reality of it, the way Carisi’s heart felt painfully full at the sight of him all soft-edged with sleep.

“You were making sounds, and then you jumped up,” Barba offered, running his knuckles up and down the length of Carisi’s arm. “What happened?”

“Sorry.” He pulled his arm away, embarrassed, and rubbed at his eyes with the roots of his palms. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What was it about?” Barba touched Carisi’s shoulder again, tugged it backward, a directive, then made to settle back into the pillows, laying sideways to face him.

Carisi set his phone back where he'd found it, then lay on his back and tucked an arm behind his neck. He tried to focus on distinguishing patterns in the high ceiling, willing his heart to beat slower, less ragged.

“I don’t really remember,” he said after a beat, and it was true. With every passing moment, the linear details slipped away until he was left with a few hollow images and a general sense of foreboding. “Dominoes,” he added. It was one of the more prominent images he was left with.

Barba propped himself on an elbow and Carisi could just make out his quizzical expression. “I hadn’t pegged you as _that_ competitive.” He placed his free palm on Carisi’s stomach and rubbed light circles.

Carisi huffed, his skin buzzing at the contact through the fabric of his shirt. “Other stuff too, just can’t remember.” The slow circles were relaxing, became hypnotic in their repetition as they drew him ever closer toward the siren call of sleep. “I should…” he began, but the sentence trailed off somewhere into the haze.

“What’s that?”

Barba’s voice sounded miles away, but it was just enough to draw Carisi back from the precipice of a dream. He could barely keep his eyes open. A thought struck him then, a synapse that only just sparked in that moment, and he chuckled at it.

“What’s so funny?” Barba asked, stopping mid-circle.

“You called me Sonny.”

He felt Barba’s cool fingers brush damp hair back from his own forehead. “I think you must have been dreaming that,” he said with a hint of amusement. He dipped down and kissed Carisi quick, chaste, but the allure of it burned away at the drowsy fog.

With his eyes still heavily lidded, Carisi reached his free hand to thread into Barba’s hair, slid his other arm free to try and pull him closer still, leverage a deeper kiss. He wanted nothing more than to feel grounded beneath that weight, to extinguish those remaining traces of fear.

Barba pulled back from the kiss reluctantly, running a thumb idly along Carisi’s lower lip. “You have to get out of here soon.” He moved to lightly tracing the contours of Carisi’s face. “Rikers, remember?”

Carisi draped his forearm over his eyes and groaned. “Ughh. Shit. Yeah. What time is it now?”

Barba rolled away from him, and Carisi could hear him messing with his phone. “A bit after four.”

He tried to do the math of getting home to change clothes and making it to the precinct by 7:30, but the prospect felt like pushing square pegs through round holes. “Maybe I should just go now,” Carisi said, resigned. “It’d be easier than having to wake up again.” Moreover, he didn’t want to chance another night terror, the embarrassment of it that lingered, even now.

Carisi heard a click, and with it came a yellow glow that burned through his heavy lids. Groaning, he pushed himself up to sitting and forced a few blinks.  His eyes stung in the lamplight. Everything looked crisp, illuminated, with stark shadows climbing the walls. Gone was that fuzzy ethereal quality, that liminal space they’d occupied for a moment.

He planted his bare feet on the wood floor and tried to breathe through a sudden wave of nausea brought about by the movement. His stomach sloshed with the combination of last night’s cheap beer and good liquor, and he became acutely aware of the low throb in the back of his head. Nothing reminded him of the not-too-distant approach of his forties more than how little it took in an evening to ensure a hangover.

Heading to Rikers for their investigation this morning was going to be a chore; that was putting it lightly. For the first time, Carisi felt relieved that no one in the squad was likely to volunteer him to be the driver.

Barba reclined back on his side of the bed, watching. “You sure you’re going to make it?”

“Yeah. Nah, I'm fine.” Carisi raked his hand through his hair, then gave it a few more desperate swipes with his fingers as he could feel how tousled it had become. Barba chuckled behind him, and Carisi turned to chide him, to point out his own errant cowlick, but all words caught in his throat.

He’d never really seen Barba anything less than impeccably put together; his collared shirts always perfectly matched to ties and pocket squares, maybe at most a few buttons and details out of place by the end of a day. But sprawled here on his bed in soft flannel pants and a wrinkled shirt, a sleep-drunk smile and entirely disheveled, Carisi was overcome with tender affection. But too, he felt swept into an undercurrent of something dizzying; a sense of uncertainty, inexperience.

Barba tilted his head, attempted to swallow a blooming smile. He was preening a little bit, perhaps, Carisi worried, in anticipation of something he was expecting to happen. Carisi was torn between the mounting urge to climb over and crowd Barba back into the pillows, and the impulse to flee just as quick, leave his things in his wake. Shyness won out. He turned away, knowing every thought he had, every desire, was boldly written on his own face, and he wasn’t quite ready to share them.

“God,” he said, half grunted, as he stood from the bed, setting his attention instead on the search for his discarded socks and shoes. His hoodie, too, wherever it had gotten to. “It’s been a while since I had a walk of shame. College, maybe.”

“I’d hardly classify this as a walk of shame.” Barba sat up on the bed and gave the impression of supervising the search, scanning the far corners from where he was perched.

“Yeah?” Carisi bent over to retrieve his socks from beneath the foot of the bed and just barely caught Barba watching his movements. He dropped back onto the bed to pull on his socks. “Well, you’re not the one heading home in sweaty bar clothes at four in the morning.” He took another swipe at his hair for good measure, but knew it was truly a lost cause.

“Touché.” Barba scratched idly at his own shoulder, then spoke through a dramatic yawn: “Can I… did you want coffee?”

Carisi grabbed his phone and padded out into the living area, half blind in the darkness, careful as he navigated the vaguely familiar layout. He spotted his hoodie crumpled on the floor a good distance from the couch, cast in the dim moonlight.

He smiled, remembering how it came to be crumpled there, how Barba had tugged it over his head and cast it aside. “Better,” he had said, a pitchy sound, as he’d gained easier access to the hem of Carisi’s shirt, the skin beneath. The memory of it ran a shiver down his spine.

“Thanks,” Carisi called back toward the bedroom. “I'm okay though.”

Truthfully, the thought of acidic coffee turned his stomach, though it'd be welcome on most other mornings as early as this. He hoped for an open bodega and a cold can of coke to clear his brain on his walk to the subway.

“Well, I'm sorry to have given you a walk of shame.” Barba clicked a nearby switch, bathing the living room in warm light as Carisi worked his feet into his still-tied shoes. It was said jokingly, but there was a trace of something darker to it, petulance, as though he were testing Carisi on the assertion.

Carisi looked to find him reclining back against the bedroom door frame. He was wearing a pair of thin rimmed glasses that Carisi had never seen before; in fact, he’d never known that Barba wore them. Coupled with the dusting of stubble, they gave him the appearance of some tired professor working late into the night, and it renewed that smoldering desire, bowled him over with it.

Barba turned his focus to some imperfection in the finish of the doorjamb, and Carisi slunk in behind him. He slid his hands around Barba's waist, up beneath his shirt into the soft give, the heat of his skin.

Carisi buried his face in the soft dip of Barba’s neck and spoke between kisses: “S’just what the kids call it. Goin’ home in last night’s clothes and all. They call it something else in your day?”

“If that’s supposed to be some sort of attempt at flattery, you've missed the mark.” Despite the tone of the remark, Barba tilted his chin up to offer a better angle, the movement belying his indignation.

For reasons Carisi didn't want to dissect, the admonishment only fueled him. He trailed his lips along the line of Barba’s neck, tracing fading indentations from wrinkled sheets against his skin, drunk off the scent of sweat and cotton as he pressed himself into the curve of Barba’s back, a visceral movement.

“I… I thought you were... going,” Barba managed through uneven breaths.

Carisi dropped his hands and pulled back, sheepish. He pawed at the back of his own neck. “Yeah, no, I should...really get going.”

“I’m... not saying I want you to.” Barba turned to face Carisi.

He flushed, unabashed in his hope for Barba to expound on what exactly he did want. “Yeah?”

Instead, Barba broke his gaze and looked off toward the kitchenette. “As much as I...” He squinted, seeming to choose his next words carefully, “We do need to be… careful.”

“Yeah,” Carisi replied, deflating. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was agreeing to.

“Rikers,” Barba said as though it were an explanation, then waved a hand. “We’ll need to be discreet about all of this.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if we’re not going to disclose, and that’s okay for now, we’ll need to stay professional. At least when the potential for scrutiny is so high. Something like this could destroy our credibility, and we need to be airtight to go after COs.”

Carisi’s heart dropped. Barba wasn’t wrong.

He glanced over his shoulder toward the threshold of the apartment. Crossing out into the world beyond this evening would once again make things different between them, and he hated to find himself in that position again.

“Hey,” Barba said softly, drawing his attention back. He closed the distance between them to run his hands down the length of Carisi’s arms, a smoothing motion. “Look--”

“Nah, I know you’re right,” Carisi cut in. “Just… sucks.”

Barba’s face brightened at the comment. “Eloquently put.”

Carisi ducked down for a kiss, soft and slow, a snapshot he could keep with him in the days that followed and in whatever was required of him to remain “professional.” Barba threaded his arms around Carisi’s waist, hands wandering the broad expanse of his back, and the motion soothed some of Carisi’s persisting unease. He was loathe to lose any of this, to go back to passing casually in the hallways.

“Mm--God,” Carisi managed as he broke the kiss, pressing his forehead against Barba’s and taking in the finest details: the scent of his hair, the flecks of grey in his stubble. “I really gotta go,” he huffed. “Before I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

Carisi planted a final, small kiss, then broke away toward his discarded hoodie on the floor. “Or don’t want to, you know?” He was grateful for the cover it provided as he pulled the hood over his head.

“Anyway, I’ll see ya,” he said quick as he moved toward the door without a glance backward. Crossing into the hallway, he could feel his eyes prickling; he knew, if asked, he wouldn’t be able to explain why.

\---

In the week that followed, any time Carisi may have had to wallow in the state of his affairs was eaten up by the mounting case against Gary Munson, the Rikers CO that Ken’s client had accused of rape. The days slipped through his fingers, lost to twists of the investigation and all the resultant paperwork. Carisi found himself quickly easing back into his routine of hitting his apartment only for bouts of sleep at best -- at worst, catching a few hours in the crib.

Endeavoring to keep things professional meant that communication with Barba had been slim-to-none throughout that week, reduced to quick moments in hallways after briefings, just enough time to exchange pleasantries laced with undertones and lingering glances. He couldn’t help his close orbit whenever Barba graced them with his presence in the precinct, or how he’d fallen easily back into his role of eager-to-please. It hadn't gone unnoticed -- Rollins had pointed out in passing one afternoon that she was glad they “seemed to be friends again.”

Still, Barba’s had been the right course of action, however much it pained Carisi to go along with it. They didn't communicate outside of work, and Carisi found his evenings to be infinitely longer and lonelier for it.

By Friday they were waiting on an indictment from the Grand Jury. They’d rounded up enough women to testify against Munson, and the lieu had worn down the CO who played lookout for him while he kept his “chapel hours” with the inmates. It seemed like a slam dunk for the Grand Jury, but Carisi had been around long enough to know that those were often the worst things to bet on.

By the time they’d gotten word of the secured indictment back at the precinct, Carisi was a bundle of nerves. He sat hunched over his bouncing knees watching the press conference on the television in the briefing room. He’d barely touched the sandwich that Fin had brought him, too nervous to be hungry despite the fact that his only other sustenance that day had been two cups of sugary coffee.

He watched as Counselor Pastrino, a basset hound of a guy with a monotone to match, stood on the steps of the courthouse and postured to the press about the great sacrifices made by corrections officers, the witch-hunt that Barba was heading against them on behalf of City Hall. He was flanked by hordes of cops and COs as he intoned; it was a clear show of force.

“Bullshit,” Carisi said, waving his hand toward the television in disbelief. “The balls on this guy.”

“What exactly did you think Munson’s lawyer was gonna say?” Rollins asked from the far end of the table between bites. “That he’s a rapist? That City Hall needs to tighten their leash?” She wiped at her mouth with the back of her hand, her appetite for Fin’s sandwiches seemingly unaffected by the events of the day. Carisi gave a guilty glance toward his own sandwich, still nestled in its cardboard box, but felt no closer to being hungry.

“I know, I know. Hey, look--” He pointed toward the screen where Barba, flanked by Dodds and the lieutenant, were caught in the frame, barely visible behind Pastrino. They seemed to have just exited the building and were surveying the scene before them, all the jostling on the staircase.

The throngs of reporters and officers jockeyed for leverage as a large group began to move, swarming in on the three of them where they now stood. The cameraman got lost in the mix; the image on the television became a mess of coats and legs and stone stairs as he tried to change positions with the crowd.

One voice rose audibly above the clamor: “You want a war Barba? You got it--”

Another cut in: “We’re gonna shut this city down--”

The broadcast cut to black, and a moment later, back to the studio where a prim anchorwoman shuffled papers on her desk and gave a nervous laugh. “It seems our crew had some technical difficulties in that crowd. Can we--? Alright, we'll check back in with them in a few moments.--”

Carisi felt the woman’s words float away from him as an urgent panic pressed against his sternum, flooded his brain. The last things he’d heard from the crowd were some sort of threat toward Barba. He’d been called out by name.

The man had clearly said Barba, and he’d clearly said war.

“Carisi?”

Rollins calling his name brought him back to the moment, and he was surprised to be standing a few feet away from his chair. He didn’t remember standing, moving.

She set down her sandwich. “You okay? You kinda… wigged out there.”

“You think they’re okay?” he asked, trying to control the way the worry was twisting up the pitch of his voice. “The lieu and them. It seemed… I dunno, intense out there, and then the camera cut out.”

She grabbed for her nearby phone. “We’d hear, don’t you think? But I’ll text Liv and see what’s up. I’m sure it was all hype.” She began to type something into her phone, and continued, “What are they gonna do in front of all those reporters, right? Nothing screams innocence like roughing up a prosecutor on the steps of the courthouse.”

“Yeah,” he said, huffing out a tightly-held breath. “Nah, that’s true.”

“I’m just really surprised that Dodds is sticking it out til the end,” she said, clicking something on her phone with an air of finality before setting it down and regarding him again. “You know? Last couple of days on the job is a prime time for easy paperwork. I wouldn’t be out there in that mess. Particularly _that_ mess.”

Carisi had begun to pace the room, but her declaration gave him pause. He stopped and squinted at her a moment. “Wouldn’t you, though?”

She considered it, her attention caught by the television for a moment where the broadcast had moved on to a fire in the Bronx, some displaced resident holding her forehead and expressing disbelief.

“Well, yeah,” Rollins said, “you’re right.” But if Carisi had learned anything about her in their time together, it was that she didn’t concede a point easily, and so he was wholly unsurprised when she tacked on: “But, really, I wouldn’t have moved from SVU to Joint Terrorism.”

He snorted a laugh, but it sounded weak. Even their banter wasn’t enough to settle his nerves, not entirely, and so against his better judgment, he flipped through his phone to his text chain with Barba.

“looked like a mob scene @ the courthouse. u ok?”

He settled back into his seat and set his phone beside the sandwich box, vowing not to check his messages until he heard the buzz of a reply.

“Dodds though,” Rollins said, gesturing to the television. “I-- ah, I dunno. I feel like we didn’t get to know him. Not really.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said. He lost that small shred of willpower almost immediately and unlocked his phone, only to find instant disappointment at the lack of reply.

“Liv says they’re okay,” Rollins said, lifting her own phone in her palm as she read from it. “Says there was some bad blood, but it died out quick. That we should all be _vigilant_.” She air-quoted “vigilant” with her free hand. “Says they’re set to arraign Munson on Monday.”

Carisi checked his phone again, but there was still no reply.

“Maybe we should check in and see if the indictment encouraged any more of Munson's victims to come forward,” Rollins said as she crumpled the paper her sandwich was wrapped in. “You gonna eat that?” She gestured to his box, “Or are you just gonna admire it?”

He attempted a smile, but it felt weak. “Not feelin’ it at the moment. I think I’ll save it for later.”

“Detective Carisi, not hungry,” she marveled as she sunk the shot of her balled-up wrapper into a nearby trashcan and wandered toward the bullpen. “What next?” she mused to no-one in particular.

He sat for a moment longer in briefing before he clicked off the television. He checked his phone twice -- nothing -- then took his sandwich to the fridge in the breakroom. Once he slid back into his chair and found that there was still no reply, he tucked his phone into his desk drawer and set to burying himself in paperwork for an hour before checking again for communication.

When that allotted time ticked away and there was still no reply, he challenged himself to another hour, then another, until all the hours of the day had passed and he was no closer to understanding why Barba had gone silent.

In other circumstances, it wouldn’t bug him this much to be ignored, but there was something about the courthouse scene that shook him. It brought the reality of their situation into clear focus, a facet of their burgeoning relationship that he had not yet considered.

All of their jobs were perilous at times; he knew this innately. But he was faced with it now, the potential consequences of caring about someone who regularly invited danger into their life. More than that, he had no recourse if something _did_ happen to Barba, if those men followed through on their promises of war and retaliation. Carisi was known to be a colleague, a friend at most, and that distinction bought you nothing special in a hospital waiting room, or worse.

Carisi was one of the last to leave their shift that evening. The warm glow of the lieutenant’s office spilling out from her doorway caught his eye as he threw on his jacket, and he popped his head in before he left.

“I’m headin’ out,” he said, idling in the doorway.

Benson had been reading something on her desk, and the interruption startled her. “Carisi,” she said, like she was surprised to have found him there. She drew off the glasses perched on her nose and dangled them in one hand. “You doing anything nice this weekend?”

He shrugged. "Laundry.“

“That doesn't count,” she replied, giving an encouraging smile.

“Nah, I'm actually looking forward to some downtime after this week.” It was half true. He'd be able to enjoy it more if he’d heard something from Barba.

“I get it.” She examined her glasses carefully as she spoke, “I think Noah and I are overdue for some quality Saturday morning cartoons.”

“That sounds real nice, lieu.” He tapped a knuckle on the door and made to leave, but a question bubbled over despite himself: “Hey, before I go, can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Carisi. What's up?”

He ventured just inside the doorway. “Earlier, at the courthouse, did those union guys make threats? Shouldn’t we be concerned about that?”

She pursed her lips for a moment, and something unreadable passed over her face.

“See?” Carisi took a step forward, pointing toward her. “That face? Makes me think something's up.”

She waved a free hand. “Carisi, they're going to make noise. They want Barba to back off, and we both know that's not going to happen.”

“Did Barba seem worried? By them? I mean, you know, considering?”

She thought it over for a moment. “Not really. I think he'll be okay. He asked for us to walk him out, but he didn't seem too phased by the extra attention. Why do you ask?”

Carisi shook his head, momentarily faltering on how to answer. “I -- well, y'know. He's not an easy nut to crack, so if he was bothered, it'd have to be bad, right?”

She smiled, almost wistful. “I think you're probably right.”

“Well, anyway." He bit down on the welling urge to continue, to ask if she'd heard from him since. Instead, he forced his own exit. “Have a good night lieu.”

She slid her glasses back onto her face and went back to straightening the papers in front of her as he ducked out. “You too Carisi.” A few steps away, he heard her call out: “And do something nice for yourself!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as we approach the end, it's gonna ride the angst rollercoaster, but I assure you the ending will be happier for it.
> 
> Comments are always warmly welcomed, as well as new [Tumblr](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com) friends.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Slurs (and misspelled slurs). If you want to skip them, they are bolded and toward the end. This chapter deals with some darker stuff, and it's always my hope that I do it justice. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your (continued) support, it means the absolute world to me <3 knowing that other people enjoy this brightens my days.
> 
> Eternal thanks to my beta (who agrees that Mike Dodds deserved better.)

“Here, sign this,” Rollins said, slapping down a large poster on their table in briefing. It was inscribed with looping cursive: **Good Luck Sgt. Dodds**. Carisi stood beside her, hovering over the poster and assessing where he’d want to write his message.

“And hey, don’t say anything about the cake,” she added as she scooted out of his way.

Carisi studied the selection of pens that she had laid out and managed picked the lone marker from the assortment. “What would I say about the cake?” he asked, feigning innocence in all matters of pastries.

“You know the usual, the merits of tiny Italian bakeries, or your great-grandma’s recipes, or whatever it is you spout off about when there’s grocery store cake in the breakroom.”

Carisi scribbled his sentiment: _You da best, Sarge. Best of luck with everything! -SC_

He really was going to miss Dodds -- but maybe even more so, he’d miss the potential that was there. If the guy had stuck around a bit longer, Carisi thought they all could have really worked well together, maybe even been friends. He admired Dodds, even if he didn’t envy his next assignment.

“Amanda,” he said, adopting an indignant tone as he capped his marker, “I would never.”

She shot him a look that said he would. “The officers who picked it up went through a lot of work to get it here,” she continued, plucking a pen of her own and crossing to a far side of the poster. “I just don’t want you giving them crap. Okay, actually, I don’t want them giving _me_ crap about _you_ later.”

“Well what kind of cake is it?”

“I dunno,” she said, more concentrated on what she was writing. “Half-n-half probably. I saw white frosting.”

He heaved a dramatic groan. “White is not a flavor.”

She dotted her message and popped the cap back onto her pen. “It is when it's from some uni’s grocery store in Long Island. Man up, Carisi.” She gave him a conspiratorial grin.

This morning’s shift was a welcome reprieve from what had seemed to be an endless weekend. Carisi had not heard from Barba since he’d sent the message about the courthouse on Friday, and he’d imagined a thousand scenarios to explain the silence as he’d gone through the mundane motions of his weekend. Laundry, groceries, even Mass with his parents had all felt tinged with a sense of anxious waiting. The worst of it he would have heard by now by virtue of his job, and so he had to assume Barba was alive at least.

“Looks good, guys,” Benson said as she strode into the room with Fin in tow. “I told Dodds not to get here til ten, so I think we’re gonna need to set this up pretty soon. Where should I sign?”

Rollins grabbed a pen for her. “There’s a spot free over here,” she said, directing Benson towards another end of the poster.

“You know, Fin, with Dodds gone...” Benson gave him a knowing look beside her.

He shook his head, bemused. The Sergeant’s exam was an unavoidable discussion, one that Fin had been doing his best to duck since Dodds announced his departure. “Let’s wait til the guy is out the door, alright Liv?”

She laughed as she lifted the poster from where it lay. “I’m just sayin’. Hey, did you sign this yet?”

“I’m over there,” he pointed to a small patch of writing near the G. “He’s a good dude, though. I’m sorry to see him go.”

“We all are,” Benson said.

They stood together, the four that would remain, in melancholy silence. Carisi wondered what it was like to be Benson and Fin at this juncture, each having seen so many detectives cycle in and out, some detectives they’d likely known longer than Carisi had been on the force.

“At least there’s cake,” Rollins said, giving Carisi a quick, sly smile.

“Oh yeah,” Carisi added, rolling his eyes. “Thank God for that.”

“What’s wrong with cake?” Benson asked as she led them into the bullpen, propping the poster on a small easel set up for the occasion.

“Man, don’t get him started on that cake shit,” Fin said, joining the joke easily.

Rollins barked a laugh, and Benson eyed each of them, genuine concern written on her face.

“Seriously, guys, what’s wrong with the cake?”

After the precinct had its run at Dodds’ cake -- Carisi had thought it was passable but would never admit to that -- all that remained were a few lumpy pieces, no rhyme or reason to the couple of blue letters left behind. Carisi was in the break room, tightening the saran wrap beneath the edges of the cardboard cake platter when he looked up to find Rollins leaning in the doorway, watching him work.

"You get enough?" he asked, gesturing to the remnants. “Cause there’s a few pieces left. I think there might even be a flower.”

"God, no thanks," she said, shaking her head. "I'm gonna regret all that sugar in about twenty minutes when it wears off." Her expression didn't quite match the levity of her tone, like there was something she'd meant to say instead.

"They do that so you have to grab another slice just to stay awake," he said as he slid it into the refrigerator. “Big sugar. It’s a scam.”

"Hey, so, I actually just got off the phone with Barba," she said, squinting, assessing his face for how the statement would land.

"Oh yeah?" He concentrated on adopting a neutral expression. "About the Munson case, or…?"

"No, not Munson. Actually, uh, he says something happened to him at the courthouse--"

Carisi took a step forward, raising a hand, "Hey wait, is he okay?" Panic swelled as his brain filled in the blanks, each scenario he imagined worse than the last: Barba had been fired. Arrested. There were bomb threats. Someone shot him.  

"Yeah, no Carisi he's okay.” She studied him as he approached. “I mean, I think he is anyway, he sounded okay but he wouldn't elaborate. He just asked if we could drop by--"

"Absolutely, yeah, so let's go." He'd closed the distance between them in seconds, ready to hit the pavement without so much as his jacket or a second glance at what he’d left on his desk, but was met with Rollins' extended palm.

"Hold up, cowboy. Listen. He requested me and Fin specifically."

"Huh? Oh." It stung, the way she said it. "Yeah, sure, okay, I'll just wait here for word from the lieu--"

Rollins scoffed. “Hey, you mind if I finish a sentence?"

Carisi raised his hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry. What’s up?”

"He requested me and Fin, _but_ ”--she dragged out the word--“Fin wants to be here, y’know, available for Liv. Domestics are messy. So I was going to ask if there was any reason you-- well, you wouldn’t want to go?”

“I want to go,” he said simply, then brushed past her in the doorway. “You saw the press conference on Friday, he could be in serious trouble.”

“I’m sure it’s not that serious,” she said as she followed. “He didn’t sound that ruffled.”

“Yeah, well, have you ever seen that guy ruffled? He’s got plenty to be ruffled about, I’ve never seen him ruffled.” Carisi knew he was babbling, but he couldn’t work his mind around the words he meant to say while also willing his legs to move fast enough.

“Huh. I guess the worst I’ve ever seen him is under-caffeinated.”

“Yeah. Exactly. So let’s move.”

Once they hit the road, Carisi couldn’t help pointing out how much time they wasted sitting in city traffic: how Rollins slowed at every yellow light, refusing to use the siren to avoid stopping entirely. By the time they’d arrived at the DA’s office, she’d declared that Carisi and “his suggestions” could find their own way back to the station.

Standing at the threshold of the elevator inside, waiting for its slow descent to their level, he was consumed by the thought of the stairs, how they could have made it to Barba’s office and back in the time they’d waited. His leg wiggled anxiously as they stood, but the look Rollins shot him made him reconsider suggesting anything further.

When they were finally in sight of Barba’s office, Carisi couldn't hold back any longer and got out ahead. Carmen barely had time to give any indication that Barba was available in his office before Carisi had opened the interior door, eager to lay eyes on him and confirm that he was safe.

He could ignore Barba's expression as he entered, that earnest shock at the intrusion melting into an annoyed sort of resignation, because it meant that Barba was still himself, and therefore likely unharmed. The most pressing of Carisi’s worries could be quelled by this fact alone.

"Hey Barba," Rollins spoke from the doorway behind him as Carisi circled the desk like a shark. "Fin was busy with some stuff at the precinct, and Carisi was adamant--"

"What happened, counselor?" Carisi cut in as he rounded the desk. He plopped down on the corner, and was met with a dark look, a warning. Barba’s eyes spoke volumes; Carisi ignored all of it.

"So I see," Barba replied, turning back to Rollins. "Thank you.”

"Well, what's going on Barba?" Rollins flanked the desk from the opposite side. "You said something happened to you?"

Barba sighed, a world-weary sound, and spoke as though he were retelling the same old story for the thousandth time. "Earlier today I was threatened--"

"By who?" Carisi's hand shot out, and he caught himself just before he'd touched Barba's shoulder. "Where?"

"Yes, detective. I was getting to that."

Carisi soured at the admonishment, and he shoved his jittery hand into his pocket to still it.

"In the elevator, today,” Barba continued. “Cornered me between floors when the car emptied. I was busy, I didn’t see him get on with us." He flipped up the iPad that had been resting on his desk and began to fiddle with it, "Security pulled the tapes, we have him dead to rights anyway, whoever he is. It wasn't the first time we've met--"

Carisi jumped in: "What, like you know this guy?"

Barba kept his eyes on the iPad as he spoke, "Not intimately, no." He pulled up a video and began to play it, a quick loop of endless pedestrians getting in and out of a small elevator. "Like it's not the first time he's made a threat. It's the second, actually. This time at least he wound up on camera-- oh, here it is."

He slowed the video down as his own image came on the screen among a crowd of passengers. He was leaning against the back wall and typing into his phone, unaware of his surroundings. After a moment, the door opened and allowed the crowd to disperse. As the door closed again, a man in dark clothing slipped in at the last second.

"There." Barba paused on the image. "That's the guy."

Carisi studied the man's stout build, his close-cropped hair, the thin chain around his neck.

"Okay, so you said he threatened you twice," Rollins said, "when was the first time?"

Carisi had expected each leg of the explanation to be a fight, Barba endlessly parrying their attempts at getting to the heart of the problem. What he hadn't expected was Barba's bravado, all that bite and wit, to wilt around him like petals. All that was left of him when he spoke again was an exposed nerve; a guilty child caught with secret.

"Uh, after the Munson indictments," he said, his attention focused on Rollins. "He, ah, stopped me in front of the courthouse, said he could throw me down the stairs and crack open my skull."

The brutality of the image juxtaposed with the breathy sort of way that Barba described it, the way he tried to bury it in the sentence, Carisi wished he had never heard it. How devastatingly simple it would have been for this guy to pull off, too; a well-placed shoulder as the coward passed by, knocking Barba from the top of those endless stairs. Carisi imagined how his blood would look, splattered in sharp contrast against the white stone. The angle of the fall, the depth of it, a snapped neck would be an easy odd to bet on, and then what? Who would say that Barba didn't just take a bad fall in an unruly crowd?

Carisi’s tone was sharpened to a wicked point by the fear of the possibility, the thought that such a threat could come to fruition. "Why didn't you tell us about that?"

"I've been getting threats all year," Barba said to the facing wall, his eyes anywhere but meeting Carisi’s insistent gaze. He sounded exasperated, as though pulling back this bit of the veil today rationalized any grander omission.

"All year?" Rollins looked to the image on the tablet again. "So this may have nothing to do with Rikers. When did the threats start? And what kind of threats?"

"Hang ups, mostly, on my cell. From burners." He shook his head, stole a glance at Carisi, then added with a tight shrug, "A few texts."

"Okay," Rollins took the tablet from where it sat, "we're running this through facial recognition. And I'm calling intel to get you a security detail."

His mouth was a grim line. "Is there someone there you trust? The threats started after I indicted the three cops who shot Terrence Reynolds."

Carisi shot to his feet and looked to Rollins in disbelief. Those men and their vendettas, their thin blue line bullshit, could it really extend beyond collegial venting into this? Threats or worse against an ADA? It took all of his strength not to march out of the room on some blind warpath, hell-bent on finding all the answers.

Rollins squinted between the both of them, then gave the ever reliable answer: "I'm calling Benson."

She took the call with the lieutenant outside the office. As soon as the door closed behind her, Carisi settled back onto the desk. It was the first moment they’d been alone since their night spent together, and he jockeyed between feeling relieved to have his eyes on Barba, overwhelmed by his desire to make sure that he was safe, and incensed that it had all come to this.

His voice was a deadly whisper as he leaned in close, "Seriously, what the hell? You don't tell me anything about this? You don’t let me know you’re okay for three days? _This_ ”--he knocked a knuckle against the desk--“is the first I'm hearing about it? _Fuck_." He rubbed the root of his palms against his brow, and another sickening thought struck him before he could get a handle on his tone: "Wait, hold on. Did you ever get a threat while I was here? While we were--”

It hit him: the phone call that had woken them, how Barba had waved it off as nothing; the text messages that always seemed to precede Barba’s urgent need to be somewhere else; the way he’d looked to Carisi just now as he admitted it all.

He thought of that first night they’d kissed, how he’d followed Barba from the Dakota to this office thinking he was following the guy on some secret rendezvous to meet the lieutenant. He thought of how Barba had seemed so worried about the state of his office that evening, so wary to step into the dark rooms. What if someone had been waiting in the office? Someone who could have gotten the jump on them? Barba would have walked them to their death by keeping it all secret.

“Did you _hide_ this from me? That’s why you wanted Fin here? You were never going to tell me about any of this until… until what, you got killed?"

"Carisi," Barba's whisper was equally sharp as he regarded the doorway cautiously. "You need to get a grip." He rubbed at his temple, then added: “At the very least, I hope you're aware that I wouldn't be able to tell you anything if I'd gotten killed.”

"No. You don’t get to make light of this. You need to answer the question."

Barba threw up his hands in disgust. "Which _one_?”

" _Why._ ” His voice cracked as he said it. “Why didn't you want me to know?"

The door opened and Rollins voice cut in. "Carisi, Liv's got a situation. The clothes job went bad, we gotta get down there."

"Huh? Now?" Carisi gestured toward Barba, "Did we get his detail?"

"I hardly think--" Barba began, but Rollins spoke over him.

"Munson -- he pulled a gun.” She waved Carisi toward the door. “He’s got his wife and Dodds in there. We'll set up the detail on the way, come on, let's move."

Carisi had no choice but to go.

Rollins blazed through every red light with their siren this time, though Carisi wouldn’t argue the necessity. By the time they arrived, Munson’s suburban street was swarming with cops and paramedics, barricades and crime-scene tape. Neighbors were eyeing the commotion from behind their floral curtains and hedges, all the bustle of protocol and documentation that had turned their street into a veritable circus.

Dodds was en route to the hospital by the time they’d been briefed on the situation, how Munson had taken him hostage with a gun no one had anticipated, how the coward had shot him in the end. The lieutenant was silent on their ride to the hospital as they followed the echo of a distant siren. Carisi drove, but he kept careful watch of her in the passenger seat beside him. She barely moved, just stared straight ahead, occasionally wiping at trailing tears with her thumbs.

\---

The waiting felt endless. Carisi sat in the sterile hospital hallway, enveloped in that cloying scent of antiseptic and latex, orchestral murmurs and machinery beeping. Rollins had stepped out to take a call from Fin and Carisi was left by himself to think about it all, how quickly the day had become the worst possible version of itself. How griping about sugary frosting that morning seemed years away from this moment.

Two messages from Barba sat unanswered on his phone:

“Is this detail really necessary? Are you aware these detectives are insinuating they will move into my home with me?”

“I just heard about the shooting. Any update?”

A small part of him wanted to leave Barba in the same sort of silence that had haunted Carisi over the previous weekend, but most of him cared too much -- cared about everything, always. He felt the ghost of the pinprick in his elbow from where he’d given blood as he flexed his thumbs typing. He knew it wasn’t likely to help, the blood, not now, but he felt better for having done it. Like he’d contributed something; a penance paid for letting Dodds take the assignment in the first place.

“absolutely necessary. no update yet.”

He bit his lip, then sent another: “i’ll let you know.”

Rollins returned to the hallway with news from Fin. He was a few minutes away with a car, and facial recognition had placed the guy from the elevator as a lieutenant in BX-9. Felipe Heredio, whose brother Barba had prosecuted years ago for a gang rape, a fact which neither confirmed nor denied any of their theories as to where the threats were originating from.

When Fin arrived, they presented it all to the lieutenant, the facts of Barba’s situation. She sent them to start knocking down doors at Heredio’s last known address.

“And please,” she said, looking each of them in the eye for a somber beat. “Wear your vests.”

As soon as they hit the pavement of the hospital parking lot, Fin slowed his pace to hang back with Carisi.

“How you holdin’ up?” he asked.

“I just wanna catch this guy,” Carisi replied, his tone clipped. He wanted to personally grind the guy’s smug face into the ground, but that went without saying.

“Yeah, me too,” Fin replied. As they approached the parked squad car he added, “Hey, Carisi, listen. I wanna show you something.”

“Yeah?”

Fin opened the passenger seat while Rollins attended to the trunk, gathering their vests. He retrieved a tablet from a locked compartment and tilted it toward Carisi. “So TARU mirrored Barba's phone, you know, to see if anyone screwed up along the way and left us a trail. They said he was a real… ass about the whole thing.”

“Imagine that,” Carisi said. If he weren’t so frustrated with the way he’d been kept in the dark, he’d be more amused by the plight of these fellow officers tasked to invade Barba's privacy, all the vicious fights and ten-dollar-words they were in for.

“Yeah. Anyway, not much luck for TARU. It was a bunch of burners, nothing identifiable.” He pursed his lips for a beat. “Thought you might want to see it, though.” He dropped the tablet into Carisi’s hands.

Carisi was confused by the gesture and Fin’s insistence. He wasn’t enthused to see whatever Barba had been dealing with spelled out, the messages he’d alluded to. That some guy out there had threatened to crack his skull open and then disappeared was still haunting Carisi, even now.

Then it dawned on him, the extent of what Fin might be getting at. Anything that Carisi would have texted to Barba would be among the mirrored messages. Their conversations existed now as evidence to be parsed through and dissected by TARU, available to anyone on the case. Like Fin, for example.

They’d been careful enough recently, professional, but there was a time where they hadn’t been, not entirely. They’d been too familiar, it would stick out.

“We gonna get moving you guys?” Rollins sidled up to them, holding vests tight against her chest and dutifully doling them out.

“I’m drivin’,” Fin declared as he donned his vest, lingering his gaze on Carisi for a moment before continuing, “Rollins, you take shotgun.”

“Got it,” she replied.

Carisi slid into his vest and tucked quietly into the back seat. He unlocked the tablet, less than eager to see his own lame attempts at seeking attention as they had been received on the other line, much less to imagine what they must have looked like to guys in TARU.

“So the DA’s office seems like big game for BX-9,” Fin said as he pulled the car into traffic.

“Right?” Rollins replied. “I mean, why now if it’s not related to this Rikers stuff?”

“Heredio’s brother could have struck a deal with some CO’s in exchange for sending threats,” Fin said. “Hell, he probably would have jumped at the opportunity, considering Barba put him in there.”

“Sure, but I dunno… Barba says it's been going on for a while.” Rollins shifted in her seat, adjusting her vest as she spoke, “It could be bigger than that, you know? He thinks it could be related to the Terrence Reynolds case.”

Carisi couldn’t pay attention to their conversation. He tapped into the folder that held the documentation of the phone records. He opened a document, and pages began to populate with blocky text, letters and numbers, a condensed timeline of hangup phone calls and threatening texts.

The earliest dates were in September. Barba had been right that they began around the time of the cops’ indictments. That detail couldn’t be ignored.

There were strings of calls that lasted a few seconds at most, all made at late hours. He imagined Barba getting used to the routine of them, how nonchalant he’d seemed when the call had woken them both in the middle of the night. With that thought in mind, Carisi scrolled through to the end of the document to confirm that, yes, their Friday night had been interrupted by one of these hangup calls.

 _Don’t worry about it_ he’d said so offhandedly.

Carisi started back at the beginning of the document and began to pick out the text messages. At first they read like a mad-libs of intimidation attempts: grammatically-questionable assertions about Barba's ego, how he should “watch his back,” how many powerful enemies he’d made, rinse and repeat. Nothing profound, but enough to put someone on edge.

But they started to become more focused, targeted in the new year. They insinuated that this person, the one sending the messages, had been watching Barba carefully, observing the people in his life.

**“saw ur pretty secretary leave. she always ride the 1?”**

**“seems like a long walk alone from ur office”**

**“hope i didn’t mess up any of ur files today. i just wanted a peek.”**

Carisi checked the date on this string of texts: mid-March. He couldn’t say for sure, but it could have been the night of the warrants, the night at the Dakota, the texts that had brought them to Barba’s office for no apparent reason. His mind boggled at what had to have been Barba’s thought process, that he would have received these messages and decided the best course of action was to attempt to confront whoever was taunting him.

 _And he dragged me along blindly,_ Carisi thought.

It was a bitter sentiment, one that softened as he recalled the actual order of events of that evening. To be fair, it wasn’t like Carisi had been an easy tail to shake; he would have fought any dismissal, and Barba probably didn’t know what else to do. He would have been between a rock and a hard place.

The question still remained: why didn’t he just tell Carisi any of this? Why didn’t he trust him, even now?

He scrolled through more messages until his breath caught sharp in his chest.

**“saw u and that fag cop on a date”**

**“u suck his dick yet** **_maricone_ ** **?”**

He realized in that moment why Fin had given him the tablet to preview, why he orchestrated the ride so Carisi sat alone in the back to digest its contents.

**“i wonder who else knows hes a fag.”**

**“seems like its good info 2 have. lucky me.”**

Carisi felt nauseated as they wove through dizzying city traffic, deafened by all the cars on the road kicking up clouds of mist. The streets shone with headlights and neon reflections, all glittering and melting around him in his panic. He looked up and caught Fin’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He clicked the tablet off, willed a few deep breaths in and out through his nose, fearing he could lose the muscle memory of it.

Once his nerves had stilled, he went back and checked the time stamp on those texts. He recognized the date immediately: the day before he’d entered the shelter. He’d written those dates down hundreds of times in his records.

It all fell into place: why Barba had been cagey at the deli down the street that day, the day they’d been organizing the evidence from the graveyard. Why he’d paid his tab so quickly and urged them out onto the street. These texts.

“Anything useful?” Fin asked as he made a wide left, catching Carisi’s eyes in the mirror once more. He slowed as he approached a curb to park, and a squad car pulled in snug behind them.

“I uh-- guy seems like a real mook, I dunno.” Carisi cleared his throat. “Whoever it is writing the texts, I mean.”

“You think it's Heredio?” Rollins asked.

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Carisi handed the tablet up to Fin, who put it back in its locked storage. “Could be.” Something about the tone nagged at him, though, made him wonder about other possibilities.

“Well this is Heredio’s last known,” Fin said, gesturing toward the looming brick building lined with scraggly hedges and tall chain-link fencing. “I’ll take lead with Rollins, check his apartment. Carisi, you fan out with the backup, make sure we don’t lose him through a back door or something.”

“Yeah, on it.” Carisi swallowed down the fear, the fury. What else could he do?

They searched the building and its grounds for an hour, pounding on doors and questioning residents, half of them bleary-eyed with sleep, none of them fond of the police presence. No one had seen Heredio, or at least no one who would admit to it. Fin and Rollins seemed to think that the woman living in his apartment was cagey enough that he must have been around recently. All they could do at this point was post the uniforms to watch the block in case he decided to chance a visit home.

Their collective mood sombered significantly as they left the projects and headed back toward the hospital. Coming up empty-handed only served to make everything seem that much more dire.

Carisi checked his phone and found another text from Barba waiting for him. It had been sent while he was busy with the search.

“Any word on Dodds? Are you at the hospital?”

He wanted to say a thousand things in that moment, wanted to show his hand and ask about the texts, about how Barba had planned to deal with it all. Instead, he settled for simplicity, wary now of the way his words might ever look in a transcript.

“we’re heading there. no update yet. please stay safe.”

He considered his message, then sent a second “please” for emphasis. It was all he could do for now, and he hated that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so close! Thanks for joining me on this wild ride.
> 
> Comments always appreciated, as well as [Tumblr](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com/) friends.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Home stretch (for real this time)! There is an attempt at Catholicism in this chapter, and as neither a priest nor a Catholic, I hope to have done it justice. Also, I said this was going to be the last chapter, but then I had to tack on a tiny epilogue, so you get a bonus little chapter. 
> 
> Thanks as always for your (continued) feedback -- I've been slow to reply lately, and I apologize for that because I really enjoy replying and your comments mean the world to me -- but as with most things, I get in my head about it sometimes. So, don't be surprised if you get a very delayed response :)

A grey mist muted the world as morning took its hold. It was a fitting atmosphere, Carisi thought as he stood in a quiet alcove by a hospital exit, taking stock of what lay ahead. Benson gave them the day to process, understandably, and she mandated grief counseling in the days to come.

He took out his phone and did the only thing he could think to do.

The phone trilled twice before Barba answered, his voice deep with sleep. “Hello?”

“You up?” Carisi asked as he scanned the horizon.

“I am now,” Barba replied.

“Dodds, he ah… he didn’t make it.” He struggled to get the words out. “Lieu just told us all to go home.”

“Oh.”

Silence hung between them, underscored by a slight rustle on the other end. Carisi watched an ambulance turn into a distant hospital entrance and thought darkly how it all was just a process that repeated itself. How each ambulance ushered in the next family, the next heartbreak.

“One PP has me secreted away,” Barba said, sounding slightly more awake. “Some middling hotel in Brooklyn.”

“Could almost be a vacation if you squint.” The humor he tried for sounded flat.

“I’ve had better vacations. Namely ones that don’t involve armed officers stationed outside of your door. Plus, this place has a distinct lack of ocean vistas.” He sounded like he was moving around as he talked, and Carisi could almost imagine him standing at a foggy window, wrinkling his nose at some graffiti-riddled alleyway.

“Yeah, well. You’re safe, so I’m happy.”

“You don’t sound it.”

“Ah, you got me there,” Carisi said, idly rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Everything… it sucks. But I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You’ve always had a way with words.”

This broke a chuckle through Carisi’s grim exterior. “Yeah, and you’re always great at making a guy feel better.”

“I—is that why you called?”

Carisi thought it over. He hadn’t really thought ahead to what he wanted to accomplish with the check-in. The texts, the threats that he’d read still lingered in the back of his mind, but he felt too tired to ask Barba about them outright.

“I guess,” Carisi said finally. “I haven’t slept. I dunno, it’s been the longest day in recent memory and I didn’t want to go home, so I called.”

“Hm. How can I help?”

“I dunno, I— yeah. Well, I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“So come by,” Barba said. “Make sure I'm okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. You can meet my new bodyguards.”

“Can I bring anything?” After a second, he added: “Coffee?

“Excellent guess.”

\---

Walking into the lobby of the hotel with coffees and pastries in tow, Carisi chuckled at the sight of it. _Middling_ was what Barba had said of the place, and that term was far from how Carisi would have described it. The entry opened into an atrium lined with abstract art and featuring a quiet fountain hissing in the distance. Upon reaching the twelfth floor, Carisi spotted a plainclothes officer stationed near a doorway. As he approached, he shifted the breakfast he brought into one arm so that he could show his badge.

“Detective Carisi, SVU.” He spoke barely above a whisper, “I’m bringin’ Bar—ah, I’m bringin’ him some food.” He nodded toward the doorway.

She examined the badge, then motioned for him to open the bag. As she rooted through the pastries, she said, “I didn’t know SVU did delivery.”

“Only on special occasions.” He flashed a winning smile. “And hey, thanks for all you’re doin’ here.”

She shrugged and bid him on his way, then resumed her station.

Carisi rapped on the door, and Barba answered within a moment. Carisi was relieved to lay eyes on him, a shadow of stubble and casual clothes softening his usually sharp appearance.

The suite was all minimalist clean lines, a small living space with an adjoining bedroom. Carisi realized as he took in the details that most flat spaces – the desk, the small coffee table, even the nightstand in the bedroom – all had paperwork on them. Barba couldn’t have been here more than 12 hours, and he’d somehow cluttered the place with his things already. It tugged warmly at Carisi’s heart, how Barba completely took over every room he occupied.

“I brought breakfast,” Carisi said. “Is there somewhere I should put it? I don’t want to disturb…whatever you’ve got going on here.” He waved a hand toward the papers spread out on the coffee table.

Barba walked over to straighten the clutter. “Seems I’m here for the foreseeable future, so the files came with me.”

“A working vacation,” Carisi said as he set down the paper bag and coffee tray in the space Barba cleared.

“Something like that.” Barba grabbed a cup of coffee and took a tentative sip, testing the heat before taking a fuller swig. “The machine in the room isn’t great,” he said. “Thank you for this. A taste of civilization.”

“Come on," Carisi said, taking his own cup of coffee over to the window. "This place is a lot nicer than what I imagined based on your description.” He found that there was no alleyway dotted with graffiti through foggy windows; instead, there was an impressive vision of the Brooklyn bridge in the distance, the river beneath it. When Carisi turned back, Barba was nestled into the far corner of the couch tearing into a donut.

“Gotta be costing One-PP an arm and a leg,” Carisi mused as he looked to the art hanging above the couch: a large, drippy looking mural of the bridge, its lights glittering against an inky night.

When Barba offered no reply, Carisi looked back out the window, admiring the steady traffic. “Why’d they put you up here, anyway?”

“To ensure my safety. Relative safety.”

“They think the guy knows where you live?” Carisi asked.

“They ah-- they know he does.”

“How’s that?”

Barba was quiet for a moment, then said simply: “I told him.”

Carisi spun around to face him, “You what?”

Barba shrugged.

“Nah, enlighten me. See, ‘cause I don’t get how you can be so blasé about all this. Some guy was gonna shove you down the courthouse steps, do you know how likely you’d have been to survive that? And so what, you decided to tell him where you lived? Invite him over for dinner?”

Barba waved a dismissive hand. “Guys like that are all bluster.” He popped the final bite of his donut in his mouth and spoke around it: “He wasn’t going to do it. Not in front of a crowd.”

“So you told him where you lived,” Carisi repeated, astonished. “Why? So that he’d actually do it?”

Barba snorted, but the comment seemed to crack his cool veneer. “Here I thought you admired my suicidal streak.”

 _Suicidal streak._ Carisi could have never imagined the trajectory that life would take after he pursued Barba in that moment in the courtroom hallway, endeavored to express the depths of how he felt. It seemed impossible, how far they’d come since then.

“No,” Carisi said, his tone clearing any lingering amusement from Barba’s face. “Call me crazy, but I don’t enjoy the thought of you dying. Especially today.”

Barba sighed dramatically and set his coffee down on the table in front of him. Carisi closed in, taking a nearby seat on the couch and hunching over his knees.

“I read the messages, you know? The texts. The ones TARU identified as threats.”

Barba winced and shrank inward, looking again like a guilty child.

“I gotta ask -- why? Why not tell _anyone_ this was going on? At any point? I mean, if I’d known--”

“Who was I going to tell?”

Carisi’s exasperation was palpable, the word _really?_ practically spelled out in the arc of his brow.

“No, seriously, Carisi, who do you propose I should have told? Look around you.” Barba swept his arm out in front of him. “I don’t have a real crowd in my corner, so to speak.”

Carisi’s heart dropped to think he wasn’t counted among that crowd.

“That’s--” Carisi began, but Barba held up a palm to silence him.

“It’s damn true and you know it. The threats started after the indictments of those cops, and you don’t have to be a detective to deduce some correlation there. And that’s not to rule out the possibility that it was one of my oldest friends, Alex Muñoz. Right? He’d have reason enough to want me... punished. Same as the countless other criminals I’ve prosecuted.”

Barba leaned back on the couch and regarded the ceiling as he spoke. “Alex, he certainly has the means, the sycophants all rallying around him. And then, too, some of the officers that I counted in my corner… the few I could count as friends, made it apparent that they were capable of lying to my face. Or at least, blurring the truth when it suited their situations.”

Carisi cut in, “Hey--”

“And I’m clearly not talking about you.” Barba turned back to face him, study him. “You...you have been…” He trailed off, his zeal deflating. “Unexpected,” he said finally, exhaling the word as much as speaking it.

“Thanks?” Carisi squinted, unsure if it had been said in praise.

“I don’t pretend to understand why,” Barba said, turning his gaze to his lap. “Why you’re here, why you keep showing up. But to tell you about all this -- the messages, the escalation, the guy at the courthouse -- it felt like, I don’t know, like I’d risk breaking some nebulous spell. This stroke of dumb luck.”

Carisi could feel his cheeks flush, the heat rising into the thinnest points of his ears. How strange to hear it described that way, when it was exactly how he’d thought of their relationship: some inexplicable stroke of dumb luck that Barba had ever paid him any mind. That Barba had ever taken him seriously when serious consideration seemed so hard to come by in the squad.

“Especially when it became about you,” Barba continued, softer. “The texts. When they made you for someone that... I cared about. Someone they’d hurt to make a point.”

“So what if I had agreed to disclose?” Carisi asked. “That night. It was a stalling tactic, right?”

“Not entirely.” Barba furrowed his brow, glancing sidelong at Carisi as he added: “It was meant earnestly, for what it’s worth.”

“But?”

“But... yes, I figured if you weren’t comfortable disclosing then, it’d be better to cut you free before someone made good on the threats to out you. No one should have that taken from them, especially not like that.”

Carisi raked a hand through his hair. “I keep showing up ‘cause I want to be in your corner, Rafael.” He moved in closer on the couch. “I can’t force you to let me, but that's what I want. I didn’t want to disclose that night because I’m figuring all this stuff out, and we had just started seeing each other, and I mean... if it felt like dumb luck to you, imagine where I’m coming from.”

A trace of amusement passed over Barba’s face.

“And really,” he continued, “I appreciate what you did for the sake of protecting me from whatever threats you were receiving. I do. But at the same time, I dunno, you took away my chance to deal with the situation as it related to me.”

Barba looked back to his lap. “I suppose I didn’t consider that perspective.”

“I get it,” Carisi said, closing the final bit of distance between them, their knees brushing together comfortably. “Kinda. Just, I want to know about these things in the future. I want to help.”

“They’ll put that on your gravestone,” Barba said with a wry smile. “He wanted to help.”

Carisi chuckled uneasily, engulfed in a fresh wave of guilt for the joke, for the inescapable fact that he’d offered to go to Munson’s house and Dodds went instead and now look where they were. “New rule for today,” he said with a slight waver in his voice. “Let’s stop talking about people dying. Okay?”

Barba set a palm on Carisi’s bobbing knee, a frantic movement he hadn’t even been aware of until it had been stilled. “I am sorry,” he said, squeezing Carisi’s knee. “About everything. About Dodds.”

“Yeah, I just--” Carisi gulped back the sudden wave of emotion, jerked his head to try and loosen its hold on him. “Ah, I can’t really right now, you know?”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” Barba replied, and leaned in close against Carisi’s side. “Have you ever known me to delight in discussing feelings?”

Carisi felt acutely tired then, as though it just dawned on him then the extent of his weariness, how long he’d been awake, how much had happened. His muscles burned with unspent tension, and an empty ache pushed out from behind his eyes.

He began to voice some sort of witty agreement, how Barba would be the last guy to talk willingly about feelings, but the words caught in his throat, overtaken by a strangled sob. He buried his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the suddenness of the storm, the tears that came from some deep well that finally spilled over.

“Hey, Sonny, no...” Barba grabbed at his shoulders and pulled him in, both awkwardly angled for the embrace. “You’re… it’s okay.” Barba ran his fingers lightly through Carisi’s hair, trailing down to rub at the nape of his neck, the tightness between his shoulders.

The tears ebbed after a long moment, leaving Carisi feeling hollowed out and raw. His head began to throb. He lifted up from where he’d nestled his face against the crook of Barba’s shoulder, a damp patch now evident on the soft grey shirt.

“Sorry, wow,” he said, swiping the back of his hand across his puffy eyes. “I dunno where that came from. Your shirt--”

“You’re lucky it’s old,” Barba said, an attempt at levity, though deeper concern was apparent in his expression. “Much as I live by bottling up feelings, it has to come out at some point.”

Carisi tried to laugh, but it came out wet and sniffly.

“Why don’t you avail yourself of the amenities here? There’s a nice shower, a big bed. I can stay busy if you want to rest here for a while.” Barba began to fiddle with the stack of papers on the table.

“Yeah, I think I might do that. I’m clearly runnin’ on fumes here.”

Barba reached out hesitantly, his hand hanging in the air a moment. A gentle determination passed over his features and he took Carisi’s cheek in hand to thumb away a lingering tear. “This too shall pass,” he said with a hopeful twitch of his brow, and Carisi melted into the surprising tenderness of the moment.

\---

When he awoke some time later, bleary-eyed and his head still vaguely hurting, Carisi found that Barba was sitting on the other side of the plush hotel bed, propped against pillows and reading something in his lap. The early afternoon light cast warm over him as he concentrated, biting at his lower lip as he read, and Carisi was not for the last time struck speechless by the sight of him, maybe more how much he enjoyed waking up to it.

The stirring alerted Barba, and he looked over to Carisi. “You alright there?”

Carisi rolled over and made his way out from beneath the sheets to sit up. “Been better,” he said, rubbing the hint of dried tears from the corners of his eyes. He scooted closer to get a glance at the papers in Barba’s lap. “What are you working on?”

“Nothing interesting,” Barba said, setting the paperwork on his bedside table. “Hey, what happened to your arm there?”

Carisi looked down to find that the pin-prick from the hospital had blossomed into an ugly bruise. “Ah, wow.” He flexed, then realized that he was shirtless, and felt slightly embarrassed. He must have thrown his shirt off in his sleep. “Uh, you should’a seen the other guy?” He laughed at the absurdity of his own joke, and Barba took his arm to examine the bruise.

“Nah, I gave blood at the hospital. They said it would help, I dunno.” Carisi snorted. “I mean, I’m sure it helped someone, and that’s the point.”

Barba slid his hand down the length of Carisi’s arm and intertwined their fingers. “You’re a good person. Really. I don’t think you see that, sometimes.” He squeezed Carisi’s hand, and Carisi tried to reply, but Barba cut him off: “And before you try to turn it around, just listen.”

“Alright, alright, I’m listenin’.”  He laid his head to rest comfortably against Barba’s shoulder.

“You were right, earlier. When you said I have to let you in. It doesn't come naturally to me. It’s something I have to learn to do. It’s been a long time since I’ve done it… maybe even longer since it’s been worth doing for someone. My counter-offer is this--”

“I should have known there’d be a counter-offer.”

Barba heaved a sigh and twitched his shoulder, effectively removing Carisi from where he'd settled. “Look, all I’m saying is that I wish you would spend half as much time being good to yourself as you do endeavoring to be good for others.”

It was a gut-punch of a directive, a heat-seeking missile targeting the core of him. Carisi didn't know how to respond.

Barba squeezed his hand again. “That’s all I ask.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, Barba taking Carisi’s hand into his own lap, opening Carisi’s palm to trace the lines and calluses with his fingertips.

Carisi stared at the far wall, the abstract art that hung there. He couldn’t begin to fathom what being good to himself looked like these days. Maybe it meant seeing his sisters more, making more time for his nieces, his family. Maybe it meant a vacation at some point, or actually calling the therapist whose number he had pinned to the refrigerator in his apartment.

Maybe it just looked like this though, Carisi thought, as Barba's gentle motions beside him became almost hypnotic. Allowing someone else to care about things _with_ him. Allowing someone else to care _for_ him.

“I think, yeah, I can do that,” Carisi said finally, enclosing Barba’s fingers in his own and giving a squeeze. “I want to.”

\---

It was late afternoon by the time Carisi left the hotel with a vague explanation of errands, leaving Barba to his paperwork and his Brooklyn bridge view. Inside the vestibule of the church, the scent of dark wood and incense immediately calmed him. The familiar creak and shuffle of the old building evoked a sense of peace, one he had been chasing for some time now. The sanctuary was quiet, pews dotted with a few congregants lost in their own personal prayers.

Carisi found the wrought-iron tiers of votive candles tucked in a far corner, a few with flickering flames, but most unlit. He slipped a few dollars from his wallet into a small envelope on the shelf and took a match from its nearby box, lighting two candles: one for Mike and one for Mike's fiancée, Alice.

He sunk to the kneeler in front of the candle displays and prayed for them all: Alice and her great loss, for Chief Dodds in his son’s absence, for Munson’s wife and kids in the aftermath, for the Sergeant and his eternal soul. The wisps of smoke mingled with the scent of mahogany, and he felt comforted by it all, felt like his words had been heard.

Back in the vestibule, Carisi stopped to admire the view of the far altar. It was ornate, its gilded marble draped in velvet and flanked by tall candelabras and fresh blooms. He thought that pursuing things with Barba would change this. He had worried that he would no longer feel welcome in these spaces, but instead it seemed to spark the opposite effect. The more he had to care about in this world, the more he felt compelled to bring it to God for protection.

“It’s good to see you,” said a familiar voice, startling Carisi from his thoughts. “I don’t believe I’ve learned your name.”

Carisi turned to find Father McDonnell there, holding a stack of papers that he’d been arranging in a wall-mounted rack. He was a small man in person; the pulpit had always made him seem larger.

“Dominick,” Carisi said dutifully, approaching the priest with an outstretched palm. “Carisi,” he added as he shook the man’s hand, and felt immediately compelled to put it all together: “Junior. Dominick Carisi Junior. It’s nice to meet you, Father.”

“A good name,” Father McDonnell said, shaking Carisi’s hand before setting his stack of brochures and bulletins on a nearby table. He began to sort them by size as he spoke. “I’ve seen you here a few times now. Are you new to the area?”

Carisi chuckled. “Nah. I’m a lifer at St. Clare’s over on Staten Island. This… it’s on my way to work.”

“I see.” Father McDonnell replied as he slid a stack of brochures, _Our Lady Undoer of Knots_ , neatly into a display.

Carisi added, “I’m a detective. NYPD. Precinct’s not too far from here.” Before he could stop himself, the words poured out: “A good cop -- a colleague -- our sergeant, he was killed. Yesterday. On the job. Line of duty.” He cleared the brimming lump from his throat; he hadn’t meant to unload, but he was powerless to stop it now. “Been a, um, real heavy few months and I, uh--” He waved a hand, then ran fingers down the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Father McDonnell turned toward him with a sad smile. “Losing a colleague, a brother-in-arms, that’s not an easy thing to bear.”

Carisi nodded, trying to keep the mounting tears at bay. “Definitely not.”

“But our journey,” Father McDonnell said, gesturing between the two of them, “here on Earth, it would mean nothing without a destination.”

“Yeah,” Carisi said, hating the waver in his voice.

“It doesn’t get easier to say goodbyes -- I’ve said enough to know. But… I’m heartened by the belief that our bodies are simply the tents we set up along the way when God’s home is our destination.”

“That helps,” Carisi said, then squinted, unsure. “Kinda. I mean, tents? That makes it all seem so… fleeting.”

Father McDonnell smiled. “Fleeting, yes, in a sense. We make our homes here too, though. That’s also important. The people in our lives, our relationships, friendships, our roots are our earthly homes. To have the key, the promise of a loving home waiting for you, is what gives you the freedom to build these things in the meantime.”

“Makes sense.” Carisi thumbed welling tears from his lower lids. “So I guess this is the part where someone asks you why, right? Why this guy, this young guy about to take on the world, and not the guy--  the criminal who held him at gunpoint?”

Father McDonnell hummed, giving a moment’s contemplation before replying. “What floor is your office on?" When Carisi furrowed his brow, Father McDonnell clarified: "Your office at the precinct?”

The question caught Carisi off guard, and he had to think a moment. “Uh, the fifth?”

The priest nodded. “You have a good view from the fifth floor?”

“Not... great. I mean, my desk, no way, I’m in the middle of everything. The lieutenant, I guess she’s got an okay view from her office.”

Father McDonnell wandered toward the stained glass window that flanked the nearby doorway. “Can you see your apartment from that window? In your lieutenant’s office?”

“Yeah, right. I got forty minutes on the subway on a good day.” He couldn’t imagine where this line of questioning was going next, and yet, he couldn’t shake the familiar feeling of being a child led toward a simple revelation.

“And when is it ever a good day on the subway?”

Carisi snorted. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“But your apartment,” Father McDonnell continued, “it’s still there, right? Even though you can’t see it from that window? Or from this window?” He gestured toward the stained glass.

Carisi admired the faceted colors, the haloed saint with his tonsure, his bowed head and fingers entwined, the grape leaves all flowering around him. “I mean… yeah. It is.”

“Well, similarly, I don’t claim to be able to see God’s greater plan -- why your colleague and not someone else -- but I believe it’s there. I believe in God’s intentions, even though it's hard to believe sometimes. His context, you know, His scope of vision, it’s different. Wider than ours.”

Father McDonnell walked back to the table and gathered a fat stack of weekly bulletins, sliding them beside the brochures he’d already placed. “You and I, we don’t have the ability, the language, to answer the ‘whys,’ because the context, it’s so much bigger, wider than we could comprehend. But we’re all a part of his plan, no matter how complicated it may feel to be in it.”

Carisi sputtered a laugh as fat tears dropped from his eyes, faster than he could wipe them away with the roots of his palms. “Wow. No, that helps,” he said, barely, the words fighting against his tight throat.

He had felt so far from God’s intentions lately, and yet here he was, still a part of the plan despite the complications, despite how hard it could be to keep believing. 

“Really," he said, gaining more control over his voice. "More than you know, Father.”

“I’m glad, Dominick.” Father McDonnell slid his final stack of papers into the display, then wiped his hands together, admiring his handiwork. He turned to Carisi with a sad sort of smile. “Glad to provide some comfort and glad to have you here. I'm only sorry it wasn’t under better circumstances.”

“Yeah. Me too, Father.”

Father McDonnell closed the distance between them and placed an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “I have to prepare for this evening, but stay as long as you like. And remember,” he said, “the Lord is always close to the brokenhearted.”

The phrase, the way he said it, it was familiar in a way that Carisi couldn't quite place. He lingered for a few moments in the vestibule after the priest departed, feigning interest in the various pamphlets while he replayed the conversation in his head, considering all the unknowable things inherent in God’s greater plan.

Walking outside and descending the wide stairs to the sidewalk, he caught a hint of fading sunlight cutting vibrant through the day’s constant cloud-cover. He had a standing invitation to return to the hotel for room-service dinner, and though his mind drifted toward the things he could accomplish at the precinct -- namely Heredio and his whereabouts -- Carisi remembered his promise to be good to himself. Room-service dinner with Barba seemed just about as good as life could get.


	26. Epilogue

The crowd of uniforms at the bar had slowly dissipated, leaving only a handful of stragglers gathered around a scuffed round table in the back. Matt Dodds, Mike’s younger brother, had loosened considerably after multiple rounds of alcohol and had been holding court, regaling the few that remained, anyone who would listen really, with tales of his older brother. Many of the stories began and ended the same: Matt had stumbled into a bit of trouble, Mike had saved the day.

As he listened, Carisi wondered what it must have been like to know them as kids, and then, what stories his own sisters might choose to tell if they were at his funeral. Definitely the one about him being a toddler and getting into his mother's makeup. They already delighted in it's retelling to any potential suitor. The story was so practiced that it had basically become a scripted dramatization.

He glanced over to where Barba sat -- a few people had pulled up chairs between them -- and wondered if Barba would ever be subjected to his sisters stories, the way they seamlessly finished each others sentences. The concept of introducing him to the family involved a lot of groundwork, and just thinking about it felt exhausting. Barba caught his glance then and gave him a private smile, encouraging, and Carisi felt any hint of anxiety slip away. It would be worth it, no matter what.

After the story being told came to its natural conclusion, Matt's mother blowing her nose into a napkin as she devolved into watery laughter, Carisi slid from the table to pay his tab. When he returned to the table to say his goodbyes, he was disappointed to find that Barba had disappeared in his absence, his chair tucked back beneath the table. Carisi had hoped that things might have worked out to where they could casually leave together. The week had flown by quickly, and between preparing Dodds’ arrangements and chasing down leads on Heredio, they hadn’t had much time to see each other between it all.

He was pleasantly surprised to find Barba outside, idling a few feet from the doorway and admiring some faded flyer stuck in the window.

“You leavin’ counselor?”

“I was aiming to,” he replied, considering the flyer for another moment before throwing a curious glance Carisi’s way.

“You’re not really supposed to be out here all alone,” Carisi said, scanning the perimeter. Barba had eschewed his security detail for the day, despite Carisi’s many suggestions that he, you know, not do that.

“So walk with me,” Barba offered, nodding toward the sidewalk ahead.

As they fell into a comfortable stride, Carisi chuckled to himself. “So I see you set me up.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” Barba replied airily.

Carisi bumped playfully against his shoulder. “Walk me home, _detective_. I’m all alone.”

“I never said that.” After a beat, he added: “In fact, you offered.”

“I did not! You literally asked me to walk with you.”

He could see the corners of Barba’s mouth curling into a sly grin. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Yeah,” Carisi huffed. “I certainly am.”

They walked together in comfortable silence, passing a long stretch of park before coming back into the familiar tight blocks of storefronts and weathered awnings. 

“Technically though,” Barba began suddenly, but Carisi cut him off.

“Oh my God, seriously?”

“Alright, alright.” Barba laughed. “Anyway. What does the rest of your day look like?”

“Well, getting you back to your hotel for starters. Then, I dunno. Paperwork maybe. A nap. Might see what Bella's up to. Mostly just waiting on word on Heredio. How about you?”

“Well, yes, that too,” he said, the humor fading from his voice upon the mention of Heredio. He was quiet for a moment, then said, “Stay? Have a drink with me?”

The question sounded so vulnerable in its simplicity, and Carisi wanted in that moment to reach out and hold his hand as they walked, provide reassurance. But out here in his uniform, in their set of circumstances, there was still that groundwork to be laid. He settled on brushing his hand against Barba’s as they walked.

"Sure. I'd like that."

"If you have time, I mean," Barba said, and Carisi chuckled at the way he couldn't help qualifying the request.

“I've got time," he said. "Seriously. There’s nothing I’d rather do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I literally did not sit down a year ago preparing to write 60k about the last few episodes of season 17, but here we are. A million billion heartfelt thanks to everyone who has been so kind along the way. Your comments have been motivators, and cheesily enough, been bright spots during a sometimes-tough year in general. 
> 
> This is the first completed fanfic I've written at any length, let alone the first piece of fiction I've ever written that surpassed 50k (I am, if nothing else, a perpetual NaNo failure), so, ahh! I don't know how to end things (as evidenced by the necessity for a tiny epilogue despite telling myself this would be 25 chapters), so: thank you.
> 
> Comments & [tumblr friends](http://oh-little-owl.tumblr.com/) always appreciated.


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